


i don't know how to tell you (and you wouldn't understand)

by starcat



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Fingering, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety Disorder, Assault, Awkward Flirting, Bad Dirty Talk, Bill is an idiot but we love him, Blow Jobs, Bullying, Childhood Friends, Childhood Memories, Childhood Sexual Abuse, Childhood Sweethearts, Childhood Trauma, Come Swallowing, Coming Out, Coming of Age, Creampie, Denial of Feelings, Dirty Talk, Discussions on Death, Drug Abuse, Eating Disorder Not Otherwise Specified, Eddie Kaspbrak Deserves Better, Emotional Constipation, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Roller Coaster, Everyone is hurting and no one makes good decisions, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Friends to Lovers, Frottage, Gay Panic, Groping, Hair-pulling, Hand Jobs, Homophobia, Implied Childhood Sexual Abuse, Implied Sexual Content, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Indiana Jones References, Intercrural Sex, Internalized Homophobia, Loss of Virginity, Lots of discussion on puberty, M/M, Medicinal Drug Use, Mentioned Suicide Attempt, Multiple Orgasms, Munchausen by proxy, Mutual Masturbation, Mutual Pining, Nipple Licking, Nipple Play, Overstimulation, Parent Death, Parental Death, Peer Pressure, Period Typical Attitudes, Period Typical Bigotry, Pining, Puberty, Richie Tozier Has ADHD, Richie Tozier is a Little Shit, Richie is a shitty friend, Self-Denial, Self-Harm, Sexual Experimentation, Suicidal Thoughts, Tagging as I update, Trauma, Underage Drinking, Wet Dick Eddie, awkward discussion about boners, failed sexual encounters, making out in a car, thigh fucking, thigh job, thigh job???? is that what this is????, very slow burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 18
Words: 143,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/starcat/pseuds/starcat
Summary: It occurred to him slowly but clicked into place in an instant. An understanding and a realisation that had begun festering in his brain for so long that it had begun to make it’s home there; built with bricks made of an internalised self-loathing that sometimes felt like it was so heavy Richie could barely inhale. It was like a weird, fucked up puzzle from the universe that was being given to Richie in fragments. Piece by piece. And as the picture became clearer, the details less murky and more defined, Richie began to feel as if his life was over before it had truly begun. That everything he had hoped for was instantly torn from his grasp.Richie knew a lot. He knew that without Buddy Holly, there would be no Beatles. He knew that modern ventriloquism started in nightclubs and originated as a religious practice. He knew that rabbits could not puke, the oldest ‘your mom’ joke was found on a 3,500-year-old Babylonian tablet, and that shellac was made from insect poop. And he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was most certainly going to hell.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak & Richie Tozier, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 182
Kudos: 161





	1. pepsi-cola; 1986

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @starcatarchive
> 
> I want to write something really personal to me, so here's a fic featuring characters written in a way that is very close to home.  
> Comments are appreciated. I hope everyone is doing well.
> 
> playlist part 1: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1WywzRZ74jwSidTd3rIDwg?si=J76GVjBATiyeMsK1asc2sQ

There was a complexity underlying the way Richie Tozier felt about a certain Eddie Kaspbrak. He had no doubts, throughout the years, that the feelings were there. Because they were there, and they were undeniable -- as undeniable as the freckles that speckled Eddie’s shoulders during the summer months, as undeniable as the way Richie would sink down into the murk water of the quarry until it reached his nostrils to try and figure out why his body felt so heavy and awkward and wrong. It was the sort of feeling that would plague the pit of his stomach to the point where he felt halfway between throwing up and choking, but it wasn’t necessarily in a bad way. The feelings themselves were never really unpleasant, moreover, there was something euphoric about them – but there was something else there. There had always been something else there – a lingering beneath the surface. Something Richie was all too familiar with, that kept him up at night and made him always sit at the edge of his seat, bouncing his leg up down up down up down up. And yet, it was something he couldn’t quite name.

Richie Tozier could, and always would, remember the day he had met Eddie Kaspbrak.

It was on a hot day in the middle of summer; not overbearingly, but enough for his shirt to stick to the skin of his back and chest, as he rode his beat up bicycle around the sleepy, backwater town he had been born into. The days were slow and dragged on for what felt like years, and this day was no different. It was barely past noon, and Richie felt so bored his 10-year-old brain was going to melt out of his ears. He had spent the morning trying to keep himself busy as he waited for his friends to join him one by one. He wasn’t hugely popular, not by a large margin. In fact, Richie had a kind of pathetic social life in comparison to a lot of kids he knew in school. He was always too much, always a lot to deal with. Too loud, too animated, too obnoxious, too energetic. A few parents had even advised their children to steer clear of him, which led to a fair share of social ostracisation and teasing. Luckily for him, every small town had their selection of Losers. And for sheer survival purposes, they all stuck together like glue.

Eddie was not initially part of this group. In fact, Richie had unknowingly watched him arrive at the house a few doors down from him just a handful of days prior. He had been sitting on the lawn, picking his nose while lazily flicking through a magazine he had found in the garage. It was about something to do with history that he didn’t care for – but the pictures were cool enough. His attention diverted from the glossy pages and his nostril as the old lady, who gave Richie lemonade and the mintiest mints he had ever had, stood at her open door and looked towards the brilliant red car. Richie remembered wanting a car like that of his own. The door opened, and a small boy stepped out. He looked younger than Richie by a few years – birdlike and slender, holding tightly onto a suitcase that was easily the size of him. He only saw him for a few seconds as he walked quickly to the old lady, fluffy brown hair bobbing with each step. She pulled him inside, and the door clicked closed, and the thought was gone from Richie’s brain the moment he gave himself a nosebleed.

The new arrival of his neighbour had completely left Richie’s mind until that particular hot day, as he and his friends Bill and Stan walked down the side of the road with their bikes in tow. Richie had used some money he had found between the sofa cushions to buy some candy from the corner store, chewing on it loudly as they talked about the possibilities of getting leeches stuck to their feet from stepping in the more suspicious mud on the banks of the quarry. Richie was certain it would happen for sure; Stan knew for a fact it would not, and Bill was unsure. It was only once they walked past Richie’s house, and he by chance looked towards the house three doors down, did he remember the new arrival a few days before. Mainly because he was _right there_.

Richie’s eyes narrowed behind his glasses, squinting as he registered the presence of the new kid sitting on old Mrs. S’ porch. Richie had never been too good at the concept of object permanence, so he was surprised to find that the kid from a few days ago still existed.

“Who’s that?” Stan’s frown mirrored Bill’s as they continued down the side of the street, Richie’s sneakers occasionally catching on stones and cracks, his shoelaces untied and filthy.

“Fucked if I know. He drove up in some fancy red car the other day. I think Mrs. S is his grandma or somethin’. Ya know, she always makes me the best lemonade and shit. She’s a real babe.” Richie shrugged, continuing to chew loudly on his candy as they drew nearer.

“A babe? Ew, Richie. S-she’s like… 90.” Bill protested, scrunching up his face, to which Stan rolled his eyes and shot his friend a sharp side-eye.

“90? That’s practically dead, idiot. She’s more like 60 or something. Have you even met her?” He combatted, to which Bill’s scrunched up face only scrunched up more. Richie’s attention had caught on this new boy; there was something intriguing about him. He was sitting on the steps of Mrs. S’ timber porch, flicking idly through what looked like a comic. He was scrawny and thin with legs and arms that looked like straws, his brown hair parted and pushed out of his face. He was wearing a white shirt and some red shorts Richie had seen roller-skaters wear, and sneakers that looked almost brand new. He looked like a twig. He looked like a loser.

Bill and Stan were still bickering between themselves as the three of them finally reached Mrs. S’ porch, Richie stopping right in front of the little cement pathway that parted the garden like the red sea. He stared at the kid, popping another piece of candy into his mouth and chewing, chewing, chewing, as he maintained his invested glare.

“Richie, w-what are we s-stopping for?” Bill hissed; an elbow sharp into Richie’s ribs. Richie ignored him, watching twig-boy turn a new page of his comic. After a few seconds of silence, Richie couldn’t help himself. He really, truly couldn’t.

“Who are you?” He said loudly, and Stan scowled, turning slightly away as if to condemn Richie’s characteristic boldness. The kid on the porch jolted in surprise, nearly throwing his comic to the floor in the process as he looked up at the trio. He squinted against the sun – he had a small face, a small everything. His nose was crinkled up, and he stayed put. As did Richie. The sun beat down on Richie, and he vaguely remembered he may have forgotten sunscreen again.

“Excuse me? Who are _you_?” The response was not exactly what Richie expected. He raised his eyebrows, swallowing his candy as the kid fired back with a response that nearly seemed peeved. Richie was nearly twice his size, yet that didn’t seem to phase him.

“Richie Tozier. I live down the road.” Richie pointed vaguely in the direction of his house, and the kid gave him a look. It was a look of ‘okay, and?’, one he saw his older sister pull sometimes. Richie felt a weird creep of embarrassment tug at his stomach, and he puffed out his chest a little, dumping his bike on the front lawn.

“Richie—"

He ignored his friends’ protests as they scrambled along behind him, Richie marching down the concrete path until he was practically toe-to-toe with the kid. He still seemed uncaring and inconvenienced, looking at Richie’s ratty sneakers and muddy shorts in what almost looked to be disgust.

“Cool.” Was what the kid finally said, before picking up his comic and opening it up again as if he were to start reading once more. Richie didn’t like that. He didn’t like that one bit. So, he leaned down, snatching it from his hands. The brown-haired boy let out a noise of shock and horror, swiping for his lost comic as Richie held it out of reach.

“What the hell—? Give it back, asshole! What’s wrong with you? Are you crazy?” The kid protested loudly, trying in vain to grab it back. Richie was surprised – he had quite the mouth on him, and some nerve, and that was definitely going to get his ass kicked around here. Just like Richie did.

“ _Uh-uh_. Who are you? I wanna know your name. You’re like 8, you shouldn’t say shit like asshole. You’re like a _kid_.” Richie snorted, to which the kid seemed to go nearly red in the face. He delivered a sharp kick to Richie’s shin, catching Richie by surprise as he cursed and dropped the comic.

He snapped, snatching up his comic from the porch. Richie was tending to his aching shin – the kid could kick – as Eddie Kaspbrak marched back up the two steps towards the front door. Richie was buzzing. He was embarrassed, he was surprised, he was pissed. But most of all, he realised, as Eddie turned around to flip them off before he disappeared into Mrs. S’ place into lemonade-making oblivion, Richie wanted to know more.

*

When Richie’s brain focused in on something, it _focused_ in. Usually it was about things like his comics, or bugs, or plans for cool things he could do, or egyptian mummies and Indiana Jones. But Richie’s brain decided to focus on Eddie from across the road. And focus it did. He couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was just so… weird. He wanted to be friends with him. Of course, he did – Eddie was a loser, but he also had a smart mouth that matched Richie’s, and he didn’t take shit. Which was dangerous for a toothpick of a kid, but admirable in Richie’s eyes. He couldn’t stop thinking about all the questions he had as the day wore on, as he tried to catch frogs on the banks, as he trudged back home to get scolded for getting so disgustingly filthy. Even as he sat at the table, freshly showered and in his favourite pjs, spearing carrots with his mother’s least favourite silverware, he thought about him.

“I met a new kid today.” Richie declared at the dinner table during a lapse in adult conversation, making sure to only speak after he had swallowed so he could avoid a scolding. “He got here a few days ago. He lives in Mrs. S’ across the road. His name is Eddie.” He started to section of the pieces of broccoli on his plate, deciding to eat that next considering it was his second least favourite part of the meal.

“Oh, that’s nice, Richard. Eddie, huh? Mrs. S. mentioned to me her grandson would be visiting for the summer and here and there. He lives a few states up. Were you nice to him, Richie?” His mother frowned at him, and he wrinkled his nose as he looked at her incredulously.

“A’course I was. I’m a nice lad. A charming buck. Never hurt a fly, never’d cause a problem, ma’am. Dunno where you’d get that idea from, dear mother.” He declared in a weird amalgamation of accents, to which his sister rolled her eyes whilst she drank her glass of water. His dad grinned at him, though his mother was less impressed with his theatrical response.

“Don’t be smart, Richie, it’s rude. I want you to apologise to Eddie if you were similarly rude to him. That’s not a nice welcome to the neighbourhood.” 

“But I thought it was good to be smart? Y’always tell me that it’s good, ma— Should I be more like Jennifer?” Richie protested, his sister gaping at him in response.

“Fuck you, you little—" She began, shoving Richie hard in the shoulder.

“Jennifer Marie!” His mother protested, and Richie couldn’t stop laughing, even with his mouth full of the second worst vegetable he knew.

*

By the time Richie woke up, two days later, he had made it his personal mission to know more about this Eddie kid. It was another warm day, hotter than it had been recently, but Richie paid it no mind as he threw on yesterday’s shirt and shorts before stepping into his sneakers and taking off. He had stolen some money out of his dad’s wallet to split for his lunch and snacks for the day. The sun was high in the sky as he took off on his hand-me-down bicycle, making a beeline straight for the corner store. He bought some chocolate and two cans of soda, as well as some candy to chew on for later. He had heaps left over for lunch for maybe that day and a few days following, so Richie was feeling great as he rode back towards Mrs. S’ place with a purpose. His hair was already beginning to curl and stick to his head and neck from the sun, but Richie was focused in on this mission he had assigned himself. Even if Stan and Bill had been skeptical about Eddie, saying that he seemed kinda weird, Richie told them that they were all fucking weird so he didn’t see why that mattered.

By the time Richie made it back to Mrs. S, the sodas were sweating, and the chocolate was beginning to get soft. Richie tossed his bike onto the lawn, as he always did, marching up to the front door and knocking three times. He waited for a little, not knowing what to expect. He wasn’t even sure if they were home – Mrs. S didn’t have a car; he knew as much because his mother often ran errands for her and sometimes drove her to church on Sundays. Richie was practically lifting off on the spot as he waited, half tempted to give up and try again in a day or whatever. But sure enough, the door clicked open, and old-ish Mrs. S stood before him. She smiled down at Richie, who was sure he looked a bit like a rat, wiping her hands on her apron.

“Richard! What a surprise.” She smiled brightly at him, her hands finding their way to her hips. “What can I help you with, darling?”

“Hey, Mrs. S. Lookin’ good as always. Really great day today, right? Kinda hot but it’s a nice change to that bitc— butt of a winter we had, right?” Richie’s hands were sweaty, and he wiped them on his pants, swallowing as he rocked back on his heels. Mrs S. Smiled down at him fondly, waiting for him to continue. “Anyway, so, I was wondering if uhh— Eddie? You know Eddie, if he’d like to come out? I met him the other day, and I wanted to see if he wanted to come hang out or something.”

Mrs. S chuckled, crossing her arms under her bosom. Her cheeks were rosy, a nice contrast to her dark brown hair, pulled back into the plait she usually wore. Richie saw Jennifer try and plait her hair like that a lot, but she wasn’t nearly as good as Mrs. S was with it.

“Is that so? Eddie told me about you, yes. He told me you snatched his comic out of his hands. That wasn’t too nice, Richard.” She lightly scolded, and Richie frowned, awkwardly shoving his hands into his pockets and dropping his gaze to his feet.

“Mmyeah. I uh… probably not. I just— I wanted to know his name and shi— stuff, and he was ignoring me.”

“Maybe he didn’t want to tell you, Richie. He doesn’t have to, you know.” She pointed out, and Richie felt awkward, a hot nagging of shame in the pit of his stomach.

“Yeah. I know.” He conceded, to which Mrs. S leaned forward to ruffle his hair, despite how sweaty it looked in that moment – and really was. He felt like he needed a shower. When was the last time he showered anyway?

“We were just baking some sugar cookies together. I’ll go get him for you.” Mrs. S finally agreed, closing the door as she disappeared back into her house. Richie was forced to wait again, another agonising three minutes, shifting from foot to foot as he stared at the door from behind thick frames. The next time the door opened, Eddie was the one opening it. He had the same look of displeasure on his face, and he looked back at his grandma, who motioned for him to step outside. He scowled, doing just that. Today, he was wearing shorts again, this time a dark blue, and a white shirt with ‘Pepsi-Cola’ scrawled across the chest.

“Hi.” Eddie seemed far from impressed, standing in front of the door almost as if he was guarding it – or planning on going back through it at any moment. Richie, for a moment, didn’t know what entirely to say. Which was uncommon for him, because usually he couldn’t shut up. Eddie looked at him for a few moments, his brows pulling together as he did so. “What do you want?”

“Wanna hang?” Richie blurted out, to which Eddie pulled a face.

“Honestly, not really. You stink.” He grumbled, to which it was Richie’s turn to pull a face. “But I think if I went back inside now, my babcia would get real mad at me.”

“Your what?” Richie echoed, to which Eddie huffed, pushing past him and heading down the three steps that led up to the porch. Richie followed, making an effort to walk past him so he could grab his bike and locate his illegal snack hoard that would hopefully win Eddie over.

“My babcia. My grandma. It’s— It’s Polish.” Eddie stood a few steps away from Richie as the taller boy picked his bike up from the lawn with a little bit of an awkward struggle. Richie played it off cool.

“Are you Polish? You don’t look Polish. Do you speak Polish? I don’t think I know anyone Polish – wait, is Mrs. S. Polish?” Richie fired off a million questions, to which Eddie snorted something of a laugh, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Follow me. Do you have a bike?”

“No, I— I don’t have a bike. That’s literally like… a two wheel death machine, you know that right? One crack or bump or something and you go flying into the fucking road and crack your head open and die. Or, you break all your arms and legs or your spine or something, or fuck up all your teeth. Why would I want a bike? I have two legs, and two legs work just fine and don’t have half the risk that bikes do. And you’re not wearing a helmet or protective gear – so you’re even more likely to get really seriously—"

“Okayokayokay, Jesus Christ, Eddie.” Richie laughed, holding a hand up in Eddie’s direction. Eddie flushed, scowling at the ground as his rant was cut short. “It was a yes or no question. Don’t get all spastic about it.”

“Spa— that doesn’t even make sense.” Eddie interjected flatly, to which Richie shrugged and started to lead Eddie down the road towards the park a block down. “And my family is Polish. My dad’s side. My babcia came to the U.S. and stuff. I don’t speak Polish. And I don’t know what you think Polish people look like.”

“I dunno. Just... Polish. Not American.” Richie said disinterestedly as he kicked a rock, watching it skip across the road ahead of them. “That’s kinda cool, though. I think my like, great-great-great grandparents were from England. But my family is American.”

“Oh. Cool.” Eddie responded, seemingly a little vaguely. Richie looked over at him as they walked, Eddie looking back discreetly towards the house from time to time. “Where are we going?” He finally asked, as Richie adjusted the glasses on his nose.

“The park a few blocks down. It’s got this cool huge tree you can climb all the way up in. I’m carving a bunch of shit up the top. I wanna build a treehouse up there one day but Stan said we legally can’t. And I don’t wanna go to jail because of a treehouse. That’s not a cool way to go to jail, it’s not even worth it.”

Eddie seemed apprehensive and unsure about this suggestion, twisting his face up and fiddling his hands in the pockets of his small shorts.

“I can’t be out long. I don’t have extra sunscreen.”

“That’s cool. I gotta do homework anyway. Here, chocolate?” Richie offered absently, to which Eddie seemed to move a whole step away from him, as if Richie had some form of disease. Not an uncommon reaction around him, given.

“I’m allergic to nuts, no way. I’m not gonna die because some weird kid who smells like an old sock offered me chocolate. I don’t even think you know what an epipen is. Jesus. This was a mistake. I should go back. This is gonna end badly—"

“Dude. Chill. Are you always this fucking weird?” Richie snorted, to which Eddie began to protest, but he ignored it. “I have soda too. You can have that. Pepsi-cola, right?” He nodded at Eddie’s shirt, and he looked down, as if he had forgotten he was wearing it in the first place.

“Oh— uh— I guess. I haven’t had it before.” Eddie began, as Richie tossed him a can. He fumbled as he caught it, inspecting it closely while his companion cracked it open and took a long, boastful sip.

“What? Dude. You’re fucking weird. You haven’t had it before? What sorta pop do you drink?”

“None. I don’t drink soda. My mom doesn’t let me. Says it rots your teeth away and gives you all sorts of cancers.” Eddie brought the can up to his face, finger tracing over the fine-print found within the printed label. Richie looked at him in shock for a moment, though amusement was clear on his face. This kid was… so fucking weird. Weird, like he was. But maybe even _weirder._

“My dad’s a dentist, and he lets me drink soda all the time. So, you should be fine, Eddie-Spaghetti. Your mom sounds like she’s full of shit.”

“Dude— fuck off. Don’t call me that. And my mom isn’t full of shit— she was a nurse, dickhead.” He snapped in response, hesitantly cracking the can open and letting it hiss for a few seconds before he took a tentative sip. He scrunched up his face a bit, to which Richie let out a loud, albeit obnoxious laugh that echoed down the empty street.

“Whatya think, kiddo?”

Eddie seemed to think before he responded, even taking another sip as if to make his mind up. And another. Richie followed suit, drinking steadily from the pepsi-cola. The flavour burst across his tastebuds, a perfect compliment to the way the sun felt on his skin. He adjusted his sweaty grip on his bike, and Eddie finally decided to answer a question Richie had already forgotten he had asked.

“It’s good. I don’t mind it.” Eddie replied in what Richie guessed was an attempt to seem cool and suave. Eddie wasn’t cool, or suave. But to be fair, neither was he.

They arrived at the park when Richie had half a can of soda left, and Eddie was still sipping at his with an edge of caution, as if it were rat poison or something. Richie tossed his bike at the base of the tree he had spoken about to Eddie on their way there. He was fairly sure it had been there since the beginning of time – overhanging, branches heavy and nearly touching the ground as surely as it was nearly touching the sky. Richie spent a lot of time there, seeing how high he could climb, throwing things to the ground from the branches, carving things into the wood. He liked to pretend – pretend he was Indiana Jones, or that he was a secret agent, or that he was an evil mastermind, or that he was an alien stranded on a strange planet and trying to make sense of it all. And in a way, he truly did feel like that sometimes. Like he was a stranger. And outsider, looking in. Filling someone else’s shoes.

Eddie looked like he had never climbed a tree in his life. In fact, he looked like he’d never been outside in his life. His sneakers were barely worn in and tightly laced, his shirt tucked in like he had somewhere to be. Richie thought that was interesting, because he had never met a kid like Eddie before in his life.

“Voila. I present to you… mi casa.” Richie declared in an obnoxious, terrible accent, motioning to the tree proudly as if he had grown it himself. Eddie look at it with a weird expression, and then at Richie, before he sipped at his soda. “We’re gonna climb it.”

“Uh uh. No way. I am not climbing shit, Richie. I am not climbing that thing. I’m gonna break my fucking arm or something if I try. How are you even alive? You just— you take so many stupid risks, it’s like you don’t even care about your health and safety—"

“All I can hear is that you’re chicken shit.” Richie shrugged, and the tips of Eddie’s ears turned red as he glared daggers in his direction, clearly unhappy with that declaration from Richie. He’d never considered things like riding a bike without a helmet or climbing trees to be a particularly dangerous pursuit – however, Eddie framed the things that Richie and his friends usually did as being on the same level as walking a tight-rope, teetering between life and death.

“ _Fuck you_. I’m going home.” Eddie snapped, to which Richie felt a sharp jolt of panic.

“No! No. Fine. You don’t have to climb the tree. We can sit at the bottom or something.” Richie wasn’t about to let Eddie go, not when it had been so hard to get him out here in the first place. Eddie seemed hesitant, crossing his arms as he shifted where he stood. “Besides. I got a splinter the other day and I’m still sore.” Richie wasn’t sure why he was compelled to lie like that, but it seemed to make Eddie drop his shoulders a bit and edge him further away from bolting down the street and back to Mrs. S.

“See? Next thing you know, it gets infected and you go into septic shock or something.” Eddie huffed, to which Richie rolled his eyes and took a seat beside his bike at the tree, leaning back against the trunk and brining a leg up to his chest. He located his candy, making sure the chocolate was tucked away and not in any proximity to Eddie so he wouldn’t die like he said. Eddie scrutinised the tree before he walked over and sat down next to Richie, both his legs pulled up to his chest and his arms wrapping around them. He looked smaller when he was all bundled up like that, and Richie wondered how far he would fly if he kicked him like a soccer ball or something.

“Candy?” He offered, and Eddie seemed to hesitate, looking at the candy for a few lingering seconds before he looked at his soda, and back to the candy again. He took one sheepishly, popping it past his lips and beginning to chew.

Eddie didn’t stay for too long, just like he had said on their way down the street. By the time it had past noon by half an hour or so, he declared it was time for him to go home lest he get a sunburn or heat stroke. Up until that point, they had spent time finishing their sodas and eating Richie’s candy. It was the sort of day that felt slow, and Richie’s brain was restless, and so were his legs that kept jiggling in place. He tried to get to know Eddie a bit in the time they spent together, as he tried to start a new carving masterpiece at the base of the tree using a sharp stone and stick. Eddie watched, chastising him about possible injuries that included lacerations and more splinters.

He learned that Eddie’s favourite comic series was Thundercats. He learned that his favourite colour was red, and that he wanted to be an archeologist when he grew up. They talked about Indiana Jones, which was one of Richie’s favourite things on the entire planet, and by the time they were walking back up towards Mrs. S’ place, he felt like he had known Eddie for years. A strange, tiny pocket-rocket of a child who was the first to be able to shoot back Richie’s wit; who didn’t seem to care all too much when he swore, who wasn’t afraid to say what he thought.

The day wore on as slow as it had begun. But Richie rode his bicycle around the town with what felt like so much energy he could barely contain it until dusk called him home.

In all honesty, he didn’t even care that the chocolate had completely melted in the pocket of his shorts.


	2. porcelain; 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But Eddie looked like he fit right in among the shitloads of lace and tiny trinkets; his hair was always neatly pushed away from his face. His upturned nose and big eyes and thick lashes made him look right at home amongst the creepy porcelain dolls. He seemed cleaner than Richie had ever been, like he had never been out in the sun at any point. And if Richie didn’t know for a fact that he had, he would believe that Eddie had simply existed in this house; that he was as much a part of it as the wallpaper and the picture of Jesus that sat on the mantel.

Richie had always had a problem with getting too… into things. He had a lot of problems with a lot of things – never knowing when to shut up, collecting random gross objects that would piss his mother off to no end, and being kind of an asshole were all classified under that same umbrella. He didn’t know why he did the things he did, he just did them. As it was with a lot of Richie Tozier’s behaviours – he just… did it. Without a second thought. And that would very often get him into trouble. At school, at home, with other kids. Sometimes trouble came in the form of being grounded, other times it was Bowers blessing him with broken glasses and a purple ring around his eye.

One of the less problematic behaviours of the bunch, however, was how fixated he got on something. His ma lovingly coined them his ‘passions’, and he supposed that was one way to put it. But it also didn’t really describe when Richie would get stuck on something less tangible – and idea, or a person, or a concept. Like a tape stuck on a loop, he’d go back and rewind over and over and over. To him, it made sense. But to others, it was tiresome. He had begun picking up on that, now. That talking about certain specific things for an hour or two, divulging all the information he could possibly cram into his brain until it was overflowing and bursting at the seams – it was a bother. People didn’t want to hear about all the facts he knew about his favourite movie. People didn’t care about famous magicians, or spies, or ventriloquism. They didn’t want to know about comics, or his latest collection of chewed gum that he had begun storing in a bottle in his sock drawer. And yet, he couldn’t help himself – and sometimes, a lot of the time, he would end up talking about those things anyway. His friends would usually try and derail him somehow, divert the conversation or tell him to shut up. He didn’t mind it when Bill and Stan said that sort of thing – what was worse, in Richie’s eyes, was when he could see when someone tuned out completely. Like his mother – pretending to listen, only to answer with ‘that’s nice dear’ even though what he had said was really not that nice at all.

Throughout the summer of 1986, 10-year-old Richie Tozier was interested in a handful of things. Cannibalistic bug species, Indiana Jones, magicians, ventriloquism, and Eddie Kaspbrak who lived in Mrs. S’ place down the road. With his other interests, Richie would check out all the books he could find within his reading skill level (which, was pretty high, so that was a lot of books) that had to do with what he was currently fixated on. There were no books about Eddie Kaspbrak. So, he had to make do with what he had – and that was trying to see when he could hang out with him again.

After the initial tree-carving hang out, Richie didn’t see any living sign of Eddie for a total of Four Days. _Four Days_ , for Richie, felt like an eternity. Especially considering he was riding his bike past the house multiple times a day, hoping to see Eddie out on the porch again reading his weird superhero-cat-human comics. But, for Four Days, the house was quiet and motionless. Richie was half convinced it had just been one long hallucination induced by boredom and heat – but Bill and Stan had confirmed to him that they had met Eddie too; so if it was a hallucination, they had had the exact same one at the exact same time. Richie had, during those Four Days, talked extensively about all of his new interests with his friends as they found things to occupy their time. They were interested in Eddie, and all the unanswered questions that seemed to follow him, but they weren’t as interested as Richie. Stan had even called him a stalker, to which Richie had thrown a rock in his direction and nearly hit his knee. That had not been appreciated, at all.

And while hanging out with his friends was fun, Richie was still left with an itch to know more about Eddie. To hang out with him again, like they had hung out at the tree. Because Eddie was odd, he was so fucking bizarre. But he also listened. He had listened to everything Richie had talked about, and he seemed to be genuinely interested in whatever bullshit came from his mouth. He hadn’t diverted the conversation or told Richie to fuck off. He hadn’t gone glassy eyed and distant. And that left Richie feeling wired and restless and seen.

On Day Five, it was stiflingly humid and miserably drizzling outside. Richie was undeterred though, as he stepped out of the house and into the disgusting weather with a destination clear as day pin-pointed in his mind. Mrs. S’ house was real. Even if Eddie wasn’t, that house for sure was. Richie trudged across the road, stepping over the stupid pothole he always rode over by accident, and ended up on the now all-too familiar porch. It had been raining a little more than he had realised, because his clothes felt weirdly moulded to his skin and body; his hair springing outwards in the waves and curls he really fucking hated.

Standing for a minute or two, Richie was holding his breath. He looked around the porch for — what, he didn’t know. But he soon realised as soon as he found what it was he was looking for – Eddie’s shoes. The same pair he had worn to the tree, neatly tucked next to the door mat with the laces folded inside. They had a little bit of wear to them now. Signs of life.

Richie knocked, and waited, sans the snacks and the cola or even his beat-up bike. All he had was pocket lint and a paperclip and a whole fuck-load of impatience.

The door clicked open quietly, and to his surprise, Eddie was the one behind it. He had expected a run in with Mrs S., as was the custom. So, Richie blinked in surprise – a surprise mirrored by the tiny boy who had ceased to exist for five whole days – so, five lifetimes, really. Dressed in a white and navy striped polo tucked into some jean shorts, Eddie looked like he had stepped out of some sort of clothing catalogue. Richie’s cargo shorts, ratty white tee, and tourist-button-up he had stolen from the thrift store paled in comparison.

“Uh, hello?”

Eddie broke the silence, looking at Richie with genuine confusion on his features. “What do you want, Richie?” It wasn’t sharp, but straight to the point. Eddie was often straight to the point, he had gathered. Richie appreciated that, because sometimes he didn’t understand it when people didn’t say exactly what they meant.

“I wanted to come see if you wanted to spend this fine afternoon with me, good fellow. It’s such a beautiful day, you see. I had been awfully worried that you had withered and perished, old sport. It has been many a moon since I have seen thee—"

“It’s like— it’s fucking gross outside, Richie. Why would I want to go out now? I’ll get pneumonia or something.” Eddie looked out towards the road, the rain becoming heavier as if to prove his point and make Richie seem like a bigger idiot than he already knew he was. But there was a pause there – a ‘but…’ that Richie could hang onto, that he could see playing in Eddie’s head like some weird game of cognitive pong. “You can come in for a bit if you want. My… my grandma is gonna get really shitty with me if she finds out I didn’t invite you in after you came to check in.” Eddie seemed hesitant at best – but Richie wasn’t going to take that offer for granted. As soon as Eddie stepped aside, Richie walked right in, trudging mud all through the entry way until he remembered to take his fucking sneakers off.

“Your babcia, right?” Richie commented as he worked on his perpetually knotted or unknotted laces, to which Eddie was silent for a beat, before mumbling an affirmative. “Where’s she at? Good ol’ Eddie’s babcia, Mrs S. The S stands for Stunning.”

Richie saw the first smile from Eddie for the day at that moment – his usually sad looking demeanour splitting with a sunny smile that he hid behind his hand while he snorted back a chuckle.

“She’s sleeping. So be quiet, or I’ll kick you out.” Eddie warned, to which Richie made sure to pull a Very Serious Face, following Eddie in his monkey socks with the holes in the toes to the living room. It was weird – Richie expected him to lead him to his bedroom, but instead he found himself sitting on the sofa, overlooking a coffee table scattered with magazine clippings and a scrapbook. It was a nice scrapbook too – large, with the thick sort of cream pages, and a thick leathery binding. Richie had always wanted a book like that, because it was very much like something Indiana Jones would write all about his treasures in or draw maps on. Eddie had seemingly been making a collage of sorts – collections of seemingly random things cut out perfectly and awaiting to be glued onto the awaiting blank pages. Eddie started to pack it up, but Richie didn’t want him to. It seemed like just another answer to his never-ending flurry of questions he had for his neighbour.

“Wait, dude, don’t pack it up. It’s cool, just leave it. I wanna look.” Richie tried, to which Eddie seemed to get weird about, scrunching up his nose as he seemed to reevaluate the mess in front of him. “Whatcha making?” He asked, to which Eddie took a seat on the recliner to his left, holding onto a pair of scissors in his thin, tiny hands. He had bird-like hands. Bird-like everything. Like he could just get lifted up by the wind and tossed across a football field or two with no real issue.

“A collage.” Was his answer, and Richie rolled his eyes and made a noise of obvious distaste.

“Fucking obviously. Of what? What’s it for? My sister makes those, sometimes. She cuts up a whole bunch of pictures from gossip magazines of like, hot women celebrities and men she thinks are attractive and sticks them in her diary—”

“I’m putting it away.” Eddie interrupted abruptly, and Richie reached out just as abruptly to grab his tiny wrist to stop him. The tips of his ears were red, and Richie realised that he probably should have just shut up about his sister because that had obviously made Eddie uncomfortable. Classic.

“I didn’t mean that in a bad way. I think yours looks cool. Like, your book looks cool. And these pictures look cool. What is it, Eduardo?”

“It’s called a mood board.” Eddie finally admitted, almost defeated in his tone. “I’m… I’m finding pictures of things I like. My um… I have to do it. It’s like homework stuff.” He was being vague, and Richie felt that maybe that was on purpose. His mom did that too, sometimes. “My babcia gave me the book. She has a lot of them from when she was married to my dziadek.”

“Is that your grandpa? Shit, Mrs. S is actually married? Dude, I’ve never seen an old guy around. Damn, I was really hoping to be that special someone—"

“He died a while ago.”

“Oh, fuck. Sorry, man. I, uh— Fuck.” Richie felt stupid. Of course, he had said something dumb to make things awkward, but Eddie just shrugged, picking up a picture of a dinosaur he had cut out and fiddling with it mindlessly between his fingertips to snip at the ends a little.

“It’s fine, man. I didn’t know him. He died when my dad was 20.” The way Eddie had said such a thing was strange; there was an absentness in his tone, like he was going somewhere else in his head. Like he wasn’t really there, with Richie. It felt like that was the end of a conversation – and Richie’s endless questions about the topic were neatly filed away for the moment being, having died on the tip of his tongue. Richie wasn’t usually good at reading social cues in the slightest; and he often ended up with a split lip or a bloody nose as a result. But there was something in the way Eddie talked, and held himself, that he understood. It was weird – like they had a lot more in common than just a shared interest in the same movies, or weird ways of speaking, like they couldn’t get enough words out and their brains were going a million miles an hour. Richie always felt like he was the fast forward button on the VHS player, pushed all the way in and stuck. Eddie seemed to be like that in some ways, but in other ways, it was like he was completely stuck. Halted on a freeze frame.

There was a weird silence that Richie only realised they were in after a minute or two had passed. It was not uncomfortable, really. Just heavy. Richie rolled his shoulder back, leaning against the sofa. He had been in Mrs S.’ place before, a few times. It was stereotypical old lady looking; lots of floral, lace, doilies, little weird statues. She had a china cabinet, like Richie’s grandma did. It didn’t look like the sort of place a 10-year-old boy would be living in, let alone sitting on the floor making collages. But then again, Eddie didn’t necessarily look out of place. Richie did, and he knew he did – every time he went to his grandma’s place, he was told to not touch a thing lest he break it. He was only allowed to sit on the sofa and eat her dry biscuits while the adults talked about boring, adult things, and Richie just had to suck it up and behave. It was like torture, really; he was always forced to dress in his nice, pressed shirt and Sunday best, and an attempt was always made to tame his unruly hair. His mom would scrub beneath his nails and he would be reminded to brush his teeth at least four times. But Eddie looked like he fit right in among the shitloads of lace and tiny trinkets; his hair was always neatly pushed away from his face. His upturned nose and big eyes and thick lashes made him look right at home amongst the creepy porcelain dolls. He seemed cleaner than Richie had ever been, like he had never been out in the sun at any point. And if Richie didn’t know for a fact that he had, he would believe that Eddie had simply existed in this house; that he was as much a part of it as the wallpaper and the picture of Jesus that sat on the mantel.

“So, are you looking forward to starting school here? I gotta introduce you to my friends Bill and Stan. They’re pretty alright, we hang out all the time. They live close too. Bill’s got this weird stutter and Stan’s Jewish or something I think.”

“And you’re a jackass?” Eddie responded, without missing a beat. Richie snorted, reaching over to clap Eddie on the back. Not too hard, because he was kinda scared he was gonna cause some serious damage. Maybe he had that syndrome that made it so his bones were super fragile and made from glass or paper, how would Richie know? “But uh, nah. I’m only staying here for the summer, then I’m back up with my mom. I might come back next summer. But I’d like to meet Bill and Stan sometime.”

Richie, admittedly, was a bit disappointed that Eddie wasn’t staying past summer. Now that he had mentioned it, he vaguely remembered his mother saying something like that when he had brought Eddie up in the first place. How much did she know? Richie wanted to pester her for more information. In his mind, the implication of an entire year meant that he would possibly just cease to exist. That Richie would never see him again, or that the person that would come back wouldn’t be Eddie. But then again, by that logic, he wouldn’t be Richie either. And he was as Richie as they got, so by principle, Eddie was as Eddie as Eddie could get, right?

“That sucks, dude. You should just move in with Mrs S., or get your mom to move down here too. I bet she’s real nice, right? If Mrs. S. is her mom.” Richie attempted, which made Eddie pull one of the weird faces Richie never really understood or knew how to interpret. There were a few beats of silence as Eddie looked down at his cut out pictures, and Richie’s eyes focused in on the fact that Eddie’s knees were knobbly and free from any bruises, scrapes, or cuts. Richie didn’t know any neighbourhood boys with knees that looked like that.

“My mom won’t move here. My babcia isn’t her mom.” The answer was weird, and almost cryptic, and it made Richie feel as if he had to decode it somehow – like pretty much everything Eddie did. He was all loose ends, and Richie felt like he was desperately trying to tie it all together so it would make sense. But none of it did, and Richie hated not understanding. It made his chest tight and his stomach knot, and his limbs feel as if they were vibrating down to the bone. He always wanted to understand, but there weren’t any books that he could borrow from the library that would help as far as he knew. There wasn’t exactly an ‘questions about Eddie Kaspbrak’ section, as far as Richie was aware of; but maybe he would look for that in the future.

“Well, I guess we just gotta make the most of this summer while you’re here, huh? When it’s not fucking gross outside.” Richie grinned at Eddie, nudging his slender calf with the scuffed toe of his sneaker. The corners of Eddie’s lips quirked up in response to Richie, though his shoulders were still hunched inwards. For a kid really concerned with everything and anything that could possibly negatively affect his health, he had horrible posture. “As long as you don’t disappear on me again, like I thought you were fucking dead. Where have you been for five days, anyway? I thought you’d gone back to where-ever-the-fuck you came from or that I’d made you up or something.”

Eddie’s cheeks flushed at Richie’s accusing queries, his leg beginning to jiggle and bounce on the spot. His slender fingers knotted into the hem of his shirt, and he let out a puff of air.

“I got a fucking sunburn. From when we went to the tree in the park.”

“You—? A sunburn? That’s why you disappeared for five fucking days? What, are you a fucking vampire or something? Shit, you should’ve told me, Eds. I didn’t bring my garlic with me, or my stakes. This is all a ploy to suck my blood, right? At least turn me into a vampire too, don’t just hit and run me, hombre. I don’t have my Richie Tozier: All You Can Eat or Drink t-shirt on today, do I?” Richie blurted out his usual word vomit salad; the exact recipe that usually had people rolling their eyes and telling him to shut up and stop being an idiot. But Eddie laughed, deep from his chest, and his weird hunch of his shoulders loosened up as he hit the back of the sofa in his fit of chuckles.

“No! No. I have sensitive skin, I don’t wanna get a melanoma, or like, permanent damage to my DNA okay? It’s not worth it. Next time, I’m bringing enough sunblock for all of us, okay? And some band-aids, so you don’t end up with infections up the fucking wazoo. It’s a wonder you haven’t passed on from sepsis at this point, considering you’re practically a living bacterial swab.”

And Richie laughed; he laughed, and Eddie laughed, until they were doubled over in Mrs S.’ weird lounge room where he felt like a black stain on pristine white sheets. They ended up watching some old cowboy film while eating Mrs’ S. homemade cookies, talking about nothing between themselves until it was time for Richie to go get dinner. And Richie didn’t really get why Eddie had locked himself up for five days on a fear that felt so out of grasp that it seemed like a morbid fantasy. But Eddie had said that there would be a next time – that despite the seemingly endless collection of anxieties over maladies and diseases he didn’t even know the names of, there would be a next time.

And for Richie, that was really what mattered most.


	3. worms; 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie was in a great mood, which made Richie feel almost sour, and he tried to act like he didn’t care even though he very much did. He had felt this before in situations like when he was being forced to share things when he didn’t want to, or when his parents were not giving him attention but giving it to someone else instead, or when he saw parents playing games at the arcades with their kids. But he had never felt it this strongly before, and he hated it.

By the time Richie decided to introduce Eddie to his other two friends, they’d hung out quite a fair bit. Pretty much every day, Richie would turn up at Mrs. S’ place and ask to see Eddie. Sometimes, she would answer the door, and sometimes Eddie would answer. And depending on some unseen elements and factors Richie was entirely unaware of, Eddie would decide if they could hang out that day. Sometimes, Eddie would come out and Richie would show him around town. He had this little fanny-pack thing now that he had packed to the brim with God knew what, but he never ever let it leave him once he set foot out of that door. Sometimes, Eddie would say they could only hang out if they hung out at his house. On those days, Richie often found Eddie to be a bit cagey and intense and off, like something had set him on edge. Usually, they’d just chill. Richie offered to invite Eddie to his house, which resulted in a flurry of stuttered reasons why he couldn’t; Richie wasn’t offended. If he knew anything about Eddie, he knew that he had his reasons for a lot of the things he did, and Richie wasn’t about to work him up any more with provocation. He hadn’t even seen what Eddie’s bedroom looked like. They would hang out in Mrs. S’ living room, or even on her closed off patio outside where Richie met her old, mean cat.

As far as their friendship went, Richie had never really experienced anything like this before. Given, he didn’t have many friends in the first place. But Eddie was very different to Bill and Stan. He was just as tumultuous as Richie at times, but at other times, it was as if a million stones had been tied to his body and were weighing him down. Pulling him way down until he was barely breaking the surface, and Richie was trying to untie those little rocks in whatever way he could. Sometimes, Eddie talked a lot about a lot. Sometimes, he talked a lot about nothing; empty words, spoken for the sake of speaking. And sometimes, he didn’t talk much at all. He seemed locked away somewhere else, and he’d just watch a movie with Richie, or they’d play a board game. Richie didn’t even like board games, but they were fun with Eddie. Most things were.

In the same way Richie didn’t have many friends, he was starting to think Eddie didn’t either. When Richie started suggesting to hang out, or made plans with Eddie for the next day, or bought him some soda from the corner store and the candy he really liked just to tell him that ‘ _that’s what friends do, dude’_ , Eddie got this weird look on his face. Like he was some weird alien who had never learnt how to be friends with a human, he would get flustered and awkward and look at Richie with this weird look. Richie would grin and laugh and sometimes playfully make fun of him, and Eddie would often just elbow him sharply in the ribs. Mrs S. seemed to be all too eager to have Richie over, or to encourage Eddie to go hang out with him. Richie had never had that before. Usually parents would do the very opposite, but Mrs. S was very enthusiastic and even made Richie baked goods and her bomb-ass lemonade. Richie had no idea what he would do if he had no friends at all. He had thought about it, when he had been lying in bed and thinking about the day, putting together pieces of the puzzle that was his neighbour to try and make logical sense of it all. Even then, he didn’t have all the pieces, so it didn’t make sense. There was always something else that Richie didn’t know, didn’t get. But he thought about what it could he like to be ten years old and have no friends at all. To be a whole ten years and have not a single friend to hang out with. And that thought made him feel sad, sad enough that he nearly cried that night, because he couldn’t even begin to understand how lonely Eddie would feel.

Richie had suggested to Eddie, as they sat at the base of the big- fuck-off-tree in the park, that he would introduce him to Bill and Stan the next day. Eddie was busy carving into his part of their mess of an artwork that had begun to litter the base of the tree. He had a particular stick and stone he used for his work; ones that had little bandages wrapped around where Eddie would grip to protect his hands. Richie thought that was smart.

At first, he had thought Eddie hadn’t heard him, so he spoke up and repeated himself. Eddie didn’t take his eyes away from the tree, his mouth scrunching up into a little pucker.

“I heard you the first time.” He said pointedly, dusting off the carved out drawing with his fingertips. “Why?”

“What? What do you mean, why?” Richie responded with clear confusion, extending a leg out in front of him to try and stretch out his muscles and prevent pins and needles. Eddie shrugged, finally looking away from his work and looking at Richie. His face was unreadable, his hands clasping and unclasping around the tools in his hands.

“Why do you want me to meet them?” He asked, and Richie began to recognise the look in his eyes to be something like suspicion, mixed with that flighty anxiety he got on the days they stayed indoors. “We can just hang out together. I don’t need to meet anyone new.”

“Because I think you’d like ‘em Eds. Truly. They’re cool guys, you’ll get along. We can hang out together too. Plus, you said you wanted to meet them sometime.” Richie pointed out, feeling the corners of his mouth turn downwards into a frown. Eddie got like this, sometimes. Weird and difficult, going back on things he said. Richie never really knew what to do in this sort of situation.

“But what if — what it they don’t like me, Rich? What if they hate me? What if they tell you to stop hanging out with me?” Eddie fiddled with his tools in his small hands, his breathing getting a little weird. Richie could pick up on the slightest of changes with him after all the time they had begun spending together (which wasn’t all too long, but in ten-year-old time, it felt like a lifetime), and times like this it made him feel unsettled. He didn’t want Eddie to freak out, because by proxy, he would freak the fuck out and that wouldn’t be fun for anyone involved.

“Eddie. Eds, noodle-boy. First of all – they will like you. They like me, right? So, they have to like you. Second of all, my good Eduardo, no one is gonna tell me not to hang out with you. I hang out with whoever I fucking want. Not even my mom tells me who I can hang out with, so Bill and Stan can’t either. Trust me. If they can put up with me, and they do, they’ll like you. Okay, Eds?”

Eddie seemed to process Richie’s words, looking at him with clear scepticism as to whether he was worth being trusted with this. And Richie liked to think, he really did, that Eddie had every reason to trust him with anything. Richie waited, albeit impatiently, rolling tiny stones between his palm and the dirt he was sitting on.

“Okay. Okay, I guess. Yeah. Promise?” Eddie’s shoulders slumped, and Richie cracked a wide, toothy grin in his direction as he felt the vice-like grip around his organs loosen up so he could breathe a little easier.

“A’course, buckaroo. Pinky promise.” Richie held his pinky out, and Eddie’s smaller pinky curved into his, and Richie was never so sure of a promise in his life. Even if Eddie didn’t realise it, he was determined to make sure he would keep that promise until the day he died, and even after that.

*

Richie had called up Bill and Stan as soon as he had gotten home that afternoon before he was called down to dinner. Bill, who was the least socially constipated out of the three of them, had had little reservations about his agreement to meet someone new. If Richie liked him, then Bill was interested in properly meeting Eddie. Not to mention, Richie promised to buy soda and snacks for the whole group of them if he said yes, so that served as some pretty decent incentive.

Stan, on the other hand, was a little more skeptical. And by a little more, he was significantly more skeptical, as he always was, and it was hard for Richie to convince him to agree.

“So, is that the kid who’s been taking up all your time recently? The weird guy that assaulted you after you trespassed on private property?” Stan’s voice crackled over the line as Richie stood beside the home phone, twirling the cord around his fingers as he stared at the kitchen tiles until they morphed into unrecognisable blobs of line and fake marble. “I’m busy tomorrow.”

“You’re full of shit, Stanny. I know you’re not busy. C’mon, dude. I’ll buy soda and snacks for all of us. Bill’s coming, so you gotta come too. Eddie’s cool, you’ll get along with him.” Richie pleaded, to which his mom shot him a dirty look from her place at the table. He gave her an apologetic smile, to which she sighed, shook her head, and returned to her daily crossword. Richie noted that she looked like not-his-mother today; she looked nice, and Richie couldn’t understand how someone could look nice and have a son that looked like he lived in a trashcan. “Stan, c’mon. It’ll be cool, okay?”

Stan sighed, audibly and dramatically, over the slight static that permeated their conversation.

“Okay. Okay, fine. I’ll meet him or whatever. But I swear to God, if he attacks me, I’m holding it against you.”

Richie laughed in reply – he could just imagine the look on Stan’s face, sour, like he had just sucked on a slice of lemon as he crossed his arms over his chest. Stan was a good friend; Richie knew that. Stan was the first friend to back him up when it came down to it; he was always there for Richie when he needed him, and he would always tell him how he really felt. He was protective of Bill and Richie, of their little close-knit group that stuck together no matter what. Even when they had Bowers chasing them down the street with his group of assholes, screaming every vulgarity they knew and whatever new ones they had picked up that week.

“Okay. Fine, dude. But I can assure you, Eddie wouldn’t hurt a fucking fly. He’s way too much of a pussy.”

Stan, in very typical Stan fashion, did not dignify that with a response – and Richie got a harsh tap on the back of his head from his dearest mother for being crude.

*  
Richie had to steal out of his dad’s wallet again in order to keep true to the promise – and bargain – he had made with Bill and Stan. It wasn’t like it was something he didn’t do, because he did it often. He considered it more like borrowing than stealing, as it was his dad’s money, and his dad was his dad. So, it was his money, really. And it saved him the hassle of asking/begging his dad for enough money to take to the corner store. So really, he was being efficient and cutting out the middleman and saving everyone some time and breath. Besides, he saved up the change so he could buy himself comics from time to time, or tokens for the arcade downtown. On the days both Bill and Stan were busy, Richie would spend his time playing Donkey Kong, Pac-Man, and Frogger until he had absolutely no money left to his name. Which, admittedly, wasn’t a lot as he was only ten and he had no job. Richie couldn’t wait until he was old enough to have a job and unlimited money. He had promised himself that as soon as he was a rich and famous ventriloquist/magician/archaeologist/drummer/movie-star, he would buy himself his own arcade machine that he could keep in his own house and play as many times as he wanted. He just had to decide what game it was he liked the most to buy and figure out how exactly to buy an arcade machine, but he was sure he would figure it out.

On the day of the scheduled meeting (the next day), Richie woke up earlier than he had the entire summer. For once, he put on some clean clothes – a white shirt with an obnoxious (as his mother had told him) button-up thrown on top and some jean shorts with the Tozier-signature ratty sneakers. He usually didn’t pay much attention to what he put on in the mornings, but he knew Eddie would probably try and look presentable. And Stan always looked like he was dressing for a job interview, so he didn’t want to look like shit in comparison. He left without remembering breakfast, instead jumping onto his bike with a backpack, stolen money tucked safely in his pocket as he yelled something unintelligible towards his parents about his plans for the day. Richie felt like he was on a particularly intense type of hyper-speed as he tore through the streets towards his corner-store of choice, tossing his bike onto the curb before he walked in with his backpack in hand and the scrunched up bill in the other.

There was a moment where Richie tossed up whether or not to get another type of soda for the special occasion. He knew Pepsi-Cola wasn’t Stan or Bill’s favourite, however, he knew that that was the only type of soda Eddie had ever tried. And he also knew that Eddie may freak out if he was asked to try a new type of soda on a day where he was also meeting Richie’s other friends, so he ended up picking the safe option. He also made sure to go through every single ingredient listed on the candy and crisps he picked up for them all, squinting at the packaging for a good ten minutes as he tried to remember what Eddie ate and what he said would kill him. By the time he had picked out a relatively sweet selection of goods, it was cutting it a little close to the assigned meeting time; and Richie still needed to get Eddie from Mrs. S’ place like he said he would. So he didn’t wait for the change for once – instead, he paid and left like his pants had caught fire. And it almost felt as such; Richie rode his bike as fast as he could back down the streets he was all too familiar with, pedalling with all his might to the point where his legs were beginning to burn. As Mrs. S’ house came into view, Richie saw Eddie sitting on the porch, squinting in the direction he was coming from.

Eddie looked particularly catalogue-esque that day. His hair was slicked into position with what looked to be gel, his shirt tucked neatly into a pair of shorts Richie hadn’t seen yet. They were a dark green, cuffed. He noted that his shirt had a green trim around the neckline and sleeves that matched with he shorts he was wearing, and a little embroidered logo on the breast. The same logo was on his white crew socks, his sneakers double knotted and slightly scuffed. He had his now-signature fanny-pack clipped around his waist, making his shirt bunch up weird. Richie had noticed that in the time that had passed after meeting him, Eddie had gotten a little tanner on his legs and shoulders. The smattering of freckles across his nose had darkened, and he looked… better. Less like he had been locked in his bedroom for his entire life. He looked more lived in, and it was evident in his personality too. Especially on his good days, when he and Richie would hang out, and Eddie would positively come alive all at once. Those were Richie’s favourite days of all.

“Is that a clean shirt? Oh my god, is the world ending? Someone call the paparrazi! I didn’t even know you owned a washing machine.” Eddie spouted as he stood up, his arms crossed as he evidently fought back a smile. Richie snorted, flipping him off in response as Eddie jumped the few steps down from the porch and joined him at his bike.

“Good day to you too, good sir. Gotta make a good impression, right?” He quipped in response, to which Eddie rolled his eyes at him. Their crunching footsteps fell into sync as they headed to the arranged meeting spot. The sun wasn’t particularly vicious; in fact, it felt pleasant on his skin, warm and radiant. It complimented Eddie, too, and it didn’t make him feel like a ball of oily sweat and dirt.

“They’re your friends, Richie. What impression could you make that you haven’t already made?” Eddie stepped over a crack in the pavement, and Richie stepped right onto it, kicking a rock out of his way, and watching it bounce across the sparkling asphalt.

“I dunno, dude. But I figured you’d dress nice, so I’d dress nice too. Also, my mom washed all my clothes yesterday, and I really like this shirt.”

*  
If there was one thing Richie forgot about his friends, Eddie, and himself, it was that they were all awkward. Like, painfully awkward. Awkward to the point where sometimes, it became almost too much for Richie to bear with. There hadn’t been many occasions where a new person had been introduced to the trio. Or rather, this was the first time. Bill, Stan, and Richie had always just… existed. From the time they started talking at school onwards, it had just been the three of them. There had never really been any other kids they had clicked with, nor did any of them have, until this point, reason to extend their limited social circle. But there was a first for everything.

Richie and Eddie were the last to arrive; Bill and Stan were talking between the two of them, Bill sitting on a log, and Stan leaning against a tree. The meeting spot was on the edge of a forested area that ran along the back of some of the newer model homes built in recent years. None of them lived in those new houses. Richie was fairly sure his house had been around since the 1900s or something, especially with the amount it creaked at night when he was trying to sleep. And it was most probably haunted too if he was honest with himself, which was cool as much as it was kinda scary.

“Sup _hombres_ ,” Richie declared upon their arrival, interrupting whatever conversation was happening between the boys as he dropped his bike behind the log. Eddie was a few steps behind him, quiet as a mouse. He could _feel_ his awkwardness and anxiety, even without looking at him. Stan didn’t really help ease that as he blatantly stared at him from the tree, his arms crossed over his chest.  
“You’re late, but who’s surprised?” He commented flatly, to which Richie snorted and swung his backpack off of his back, dropping it into the middle of the grass area that looked like it had male-pattern-baldness (if he remembered that term correctly). Stan pushed off from the tree and headed towards the backpack, unzipping it, and beginning to pull out the drinks and snacks Richie had so graciously decided to provide for everyone. Bill was a lot more welcoming, smiling at Eddie who had taken to standing away from the three, rifling around in his fanny pack as if his little life depended on it.

“Hey, Eddie. I’m B-Bill. Nice to m-m-meet you,” Bill acknowledged, Eddie pulling out a grey L-shaped thing from one of the endless pockets he had been digging through. His eyes flickered to Richie, Stan angrily muttering at him about his lack of taste when it came to snacks and he _didn’t know why he even really bothered coming at all_ , and back to Bill before he lifted the unidentified thing to his lips. He pressed the top and inhaled sharply, to which Richie looked at him weirdly because _what the fuck even was that_?

“What the fuck is that?” He verbalised his confusion, to which Stan looked up and snorted, straightening back up with a can of soda in his hand.

“It’s an asthma puffer, retard. Have you seriously never seen someone use one of those before? Idiot.” Stan snickered, to which Richie leaned over and shoved his shoulder with a huff and a flush of embarrassment.

“Yeah, Richie, w-w-what the heck?” Bill laughed, to which Eddie stifled a snicker behind his hand at Richie’s expense. _Typical._ Eddie had a light flush across his nose and cheeks, but his shoulders were less hunched up and tense as the ice was inevitably broken. Well, at least there was that, even if Richie was the butt of the joke.

“What do you even use that for anyway, huh? It’s not my fault I don’t know anyone who has any… conditions or whatever. Can I try it? Does it get you high?” He asked, stepping over the log as he walked towards Eddie.

“Oh my god—Eddie, I am so sorry you’ve had to deal with this dumbass. I swear to God, he has nothing between his ears. It’s just empty space and bad jokes.” Stan groaned as Bill got up from his seat on the log to grab his fair share of the snacks before they were all eaten.

“It’s for asthma? I have asthma. Sometimes I can’t breathe properly and I have to use this so I don’t suffocate to death. No—Richie, fuck off, you can’t fucking try it. It doesn’t get you high. It’s steroids or something, it just makes me not _die_ —”

“Let me have a look, dude! I wanna look at it. God, the world really is against you isn’t it? First the nut allergy, then the asthma. It’s like the universe wants you to die or something. If you take that enough, will you beef up like Arnie Schwarzenegger? You could join the A-Team or something, huh?”

“Don’t—Don’t fucking touch it with your gross hands. Your hands are so dirty, Richie, I put this near my mouth! I don’t want dirt in my digestive tract, I’m not a goddamn animal. I was born premature, okay? And no, it doesn’t do that. Literally shut _up_. It’s just medication. I take heaps of medication, alright? I have health conditions.”

Richie was busy trying to snatch the asthma puffer right out of Eddie’s hands as they bickered between themselves, Bill and Stan drinking their sodas and snickering. Aside from Richie, Eddie was the only other kid in their group/social circle that said _fuck_ , something Bill had never dared to do and Stan did very sparingly. Bill had only really begun to venture into _shit_ territory, but _fuck_ was way too far out of his comfort zone.

“Beep beep, Richie. God, you thought we would be too much for him to handle. You’re a pest.” Stan called out, to which Richie squinted (the sun was in his eyes) in his direction from behind his thick-framed glasses. Eddie took that opportunity to step around him and approach the backpack, picking through the contents until he settled on a can of soda and some candy Richie may or may not have chosen with him specifically in mind.

It seemed like Richie being the butt of the joke worked pretty well in the ways as a common ground for everyone to get to know each other; and Eddie soon relaxed enough to join in on their conversations and even agree to go with them to the banks of the quarry to see if they could find any tadpoles or tiny fish or even some worms for Richie to shove in his empty Pepsi-Cola can. Bill had been the one to suggest that activity. Eddie had gotten on particularly well with Bill, to Richie’s observation. He laughed at every one of his jokes, and instantly agreed to his suggestion of going to the quarry. This irked Richie, considering he had suggested the quarry a whole bunch of times to which Eddie had never agreed on grounds that it was muddy and gross and an _accident just waiting to happen._ But with Bill, no such concerns seemed to be noted. In fact, as the day wore on, Richie felt a weird snappy irritation come over him the more he noticed just how well Eddie and Bill got along. Stan seemed to notice and tried talking to Richie when Bill and Eddie were deep in conversation about something or other. But he still felt that irritation and anger bubble up to the point where he felt like he was on the edge of exploding, only able to curb the feeling by stabbing a stick into the muddy patch he was searching for worms within. He managed to find a whole bunch with this technique, filling his soda can with at least twenty or so. Eddie was sitting on a rock as Bill talked to him about something Richie didn’t care about. It wasn’t fair, really. Eddie was his friend, and Bill was talking to him like he was _his_ friend first, even though Richie had been the one to introduce them in the first place.

By the time Richie had amassed a worm army of around twenty-five worms, it was starting to near the end of the afternoon. Eddie had to go home to make dinner with Mrs S. and that was a weird relief for Richie as he declared that he was going to walk Eddie back to his place because he lived just across the road from him anyway. After a few more joking comments and goodbyes, and Bill saying something infuriatingly nice and stupid like ‘ _nice meeting you Eddie’_ , the two of them began walking towards the direction of their street. Eddie was in a great mood, which made Richie feel almost sour, and he tried to act like he didn’t care even though he very much did. He had felt this before in situations like when he was being forced to share things when he didn’t want to, or when his parents were not giving him attention but giving it to someone else instead, or when he saw parents playing games at the arcades with their kids. But he had never felt it this strongly before, and he hated it.

“That was so fun, Richie. Bill and Stan are so funny. I was really nervous, but I’m so happy I made new friends with them.” Eddie rattled on as Richie walked beside him, unusually quiet, although Eddie didn’t seem to notice. “And the quarry is really cool, too. We should go again sometime. Bill said he was going to show me how to make boats out of paper and we can have a sailing race. He also said that we can make them waterproof. I think that’s so cool. He said that—”

“I don’t care what Bill said. He says a lot. He can’t even say it properly.” Richie snapped, before he could even stop himself. Eddie frowned, looking over at him and stopping. Richie didn’t stop until he was a few steps ahead, looking back at Eddie who had his arms crossed over his chest. “What? Are you coming?”

“That was mean, Richie. You know he can’t help it. He’s your friend.” Eddie said, defensively, and Richie felt the bad feelings that had been simmering away in him all afternoon just get hotter.

“What, so he’s your best friend now? I can say whatever I want about him. He was my friend first, and you were my friend before you were his friend. You talked to him and Stan all afternoon and you didn’t even talk to me. I caught twenty-five worms, and you didn’t even care. That’s like, a whole lotta worms, Eddie.” Richie’s face felt hot, and Eddie looked at him, not saying anything for a bit as he continued to stand on the side of the road. His eyes were on Richie’s face, flickering over his features like he was trying to read him like a book or something. Richie just felt bad. A whole lot of emotions that pent up inside him and made him feel sick.

“I didn’t mean to make you feel excluded, Rich. I’m sorry I didn’t see your worms. But you should’ve shown me. I didn’t know you wanted me to see.” Eddie said, and Richie’s eyes hurt. He sniffled, looking away from Eddie just in case because he wasn’t a pussy baby and he didn’t want to cry in front of him like a fucking loser. “I like your friends. But you’re my best friend. I like hanging out with you the most, even if you’re annoying sometimes.” Richie sniffled, playing it off like he was choking on his own spit and coughing as a result. He didn’t want Eddie to think he was crying, even if he was a little bit. Richie had had Stan and Bill forever, but he had never ever had a specific best friend before. Sure, he was sort of best friends with Stan and Bill, but it was different. This was different. Eddie just got him in a way Richie could never really explain nor even understand – it was like they had known each other forever. And he had a lot of feelings all at once that he couldn’t even begin to describe or understand – but now not all of them were bad. And Richie hadn’t really realised before, but he had a lot of feelings all the time, and a lot of them weren’t particularly good. A lot of them were loud, and fast, and he couldn’t ever get away from them. No matter how fast he rode his bike, or how far, or what he read or talked about or did. They were always there, keeping him awake, keeping him going and going and going. But Eddie seemed to have a lot of feelings too, all the time. And it was nice to finally feel like somebody understood. 


	4. railroad; 1986

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie never forgets that first summer in 1986.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2 chapters in a week? Incredible.

The summer of 1986 felt like both an eternity and an instant at once. Richie wasn’t sure how that was even possible, but every day felt like it extended for a week at a time; yet time itself seemed to slip through his grasp like the quicksand he was always paranoid of sinking into at any given moment (no thanks to his abundance of Indiana Jones related daydreams). As the minutes and hours turned into days and weeks, Richie felt like he had lived at least ten lifetimes within the span of only a handful of months. Before he had even really realised it, he was going back to school in two weeks. That, as far as Richie was concerned, was not necessarily a good thing for a multitude of perfectly valid reasons. While he was pretty smart (and he knew he was), he found school hard. Concentrating on things he found boring and sitting still for extended periods of time weren’t exactly on his list of strengths. He was also pretty bad at putting his hand up to answer questions, or handing in his projects on time, and while he knew he was perfectly capable of achieving A+’s across his report cards with little to no effort (and a lot of the time he did), the actual part of going to class felt more like a contemporary form of torture. Furthermore, school also meant having to deal with Bowers and his gang having it out for him and his friends for simply being born – so, he was pretty sure that within two weeks, he was going to be coming home with significantly more bloody noses and suspicious bruises.

Not to mention, the end of summer meant that Eddie would be going back home to his mother until next year.

Richie had pushed that thought to the back of his mind for the most part, however Eddie was the one to bring it up. He had done so while he and Richie were walking down some old, rusted train tracks they had discovered a week or so prior while looking for ancient artefacts from lost civilisations in the forest-y tree line. They’d hung out quite a fair bit as a group with Bill and Stan following the day of introductions and Eddie’s first trip to the quarry, however Richie and Eddie had hung out a whole lot one-on-one too. The pair had spent pretty much every day together in some capacity. Either with the group or not, Eddie’s presence became as much a part of Richie’s everyday life as waking up in the morning did. It was easy for Richie to be around Eddie and simply exist in a way he didn’t with anyone else. They could be completely silent and doing their own respective things, and Richie didn’t feel the need to fill the silence with stupid jokes or pointless conversations. They had simply just fallen into line with one another’s lives; like jigsaw pieces, they simply clicked.

Yet despite the hours upon hours they had spent in each other’s presence, Richie felt… odd. He couldn’t quite put a finger to it. While he felt like he was getting to know more and more about Eddie with every passing day, when it came down to it, he still didn’t know a whole lot. Eddie was complicated like that. Sometimes he would talk a lot about some things, yet when Richie would ask questions, he would give vague answers or take the conversation elsewhere. There were a lot of things Eddie didn’t like to talk about. Things like his family, his mom, the way his life was like back at home in another city, school, friends. He didn’t like to talk about why he was at his grandma’s, or go into specific details about certain aspects of his hobbies like his scrapbooking. Sometimes he would give Richie scraps of information. Little statements here and there, meanings between the lines that he could barely make out. But he was getting better at reading Eddie, at understanding when he said things and meant something else. Richie would ask his questions, but he also knew not to be pushy about it if Eddie decided he didn’t want to talk about it. He had learnt that pretty quickly – pushing Eddie and trying to get him to do things didn’t work. Sometimes he got angry and lashed out at Richie, and other times he would completely withdraw into himself and get real quiet and not talk at all. Richie found himself realising that Eddie knew a whole lot about him, and that he talked a lot about himself without even realising. When he got nervous, he would talk about nothing in particular and run his motormouth, and Eddie would just listen and soak up every word. Richie thought in the beginning that he was doing what everybody in Richie’s life did whenever he talked a lot; just tune out and let him wind himself up, watch him go. But he realised soon enough that Eddie was actually listening to what he said. Every single word. He would ask insightful questions or bring things up later in conversation. He would ask about things Richie never even remembered talking to him about – things like when he had wet the bed a few times up until he was 9, or how he didn’t understand his own thoughts and feelings, or how sometimes he felt like a stranger in his own life. Outside looking in. Things Richie never told anyone, yet he told Eddie. He didn’t know why he was different; but to be fair, he didn’t know why he was so different in many senses of the word.

So, it took Richie completely off guard when Eddie was the one who brought up the uncomfortable topic of his imminent departure, on that particularly humid day. They were sharing Twizzlers as they walked down the rusted iron rails, gravel crunching beneath their soles. There had been a lapse in conversation between them for a minute or two when Eddie spoke up, fiddling with the candy between his small fingers.

“I’m going back home real soon. Summer’s almost over, and I gotta get home before school starts.” Eddie’s voice cut like a blade through their comfortable silence, and Richie’s stomach tied into knots that hurt more than anything he could ever imagine. He swallowed his mouthful of red candy, trying to swallow down the stinging he felt in his throat. He looked at Eddie, who wasn’t looking at him. In the time he had spent there, he had changed a lot. He wasn’t the same boy who had arrived in that fancy red car those weeks ago. He looked better. Healthier. His skin less pale, freckles darkened by the kiss of the sun. His eyes even looked different, like they sparkled more. He held himself up more when he stood, he spoke louder and clearer. And his sneakers finally had been worn in. It made Richie wonder if all of that would go away once Eddie did, and if he would return to the Eddie he had been beforehand. White as a ghost and scattered, pasting pictures into an old scrapbook and keeping his eyes away, scared of life.

“But you’ll be back next summer, right? And that’s not that long, really. Just a few months. And I’m sure you can come before then, too, right? To visit your grandma?” _To visit him?_ Richie tried to find some reason, something to ease the discomfort in his stomach that felt like a rock, weighing him down and down.

Eddie continued to keep his eyes diverted from Richie as they walked, his lips pursed in thoughtful silence as he continued to fiddle with the Twizzler between his fingertips. It was like he was trying to UnTwizzle it or something.

“I’ll definitely be back next summer. But I don’t think I will be back before then. My mom and Babcia don’t get along.” Eddie commented, and Richie was quiet for a bit. He wasn’t quite sure what to say. He didn’t expect Eddie to want to talk about anything like this, because he didn’t, ever. But he tried, anyway.

“Why? Mrs S is really nice.” Richie frowned, lifting some candy to his lips, and taking a hearty bite before he began to chew. He kicked a rock away from them as they walked. To his surprise, Eddie didn’t react in the way he expected. Instead, he shrugged, looking towards his feet, and frowning in a way that made him look a lot older than he was.

“My babcia is my dad’s mom. She doesn’t like my mom very much. She doesn’t like a lot of the things she does or says. She never has. After my dad died, she wanted me to live with her.” Eddie’s few sentences on his life were more than Richie had ever heard from him, and more than he knew what to do with. It felt like a bombshell, flooding him with more questions but answering a few all at the same time. Eddie had never talked about his dad, and it was hard for him to wrap his head around the fact that he just didn’t have one. Everyone Richie knew had a dad. Everyone in town had a dad. But Eddie didn’t.

“When did your dad die?” Richie blurted out, and he knew instantly that that was one of those sorts of questions you just didn’t ask. He was about to apologise to Eddie for being an idiot, but Eddie took a bite from his mangled candy and stopped walking as they approached a big rock just off the tracks. He walked over to it, leaning against it, and finally looking in Richie’s direction.

“When I was 7. He got sick and died, and now it’s just me and my mom all alone.” Eddie answered curtly, and Richie wondered why he didn’t bring more drinks for the two of them beyond the soda that was now lukewarm in his bag.

“Why haven’t you come here before? That was 3 years ago. That’s 3 summers.” Richie sat down in the dirt, not minding the way the stones pushed uncomfortably against his skin. He picked one up to fiddle with, squinting up at Eddie and listening intently.

“I don’t know. I didn’t have to before. But… but I have to now. I have to do a lot of things. My mom says my babcia is just trying to take me away from her and ruin our family. But Wendy says that I should come here every summer, and that my babcia is important and loves me very much.” Eddie’s face scrunched up, and he ended up sitting on the floor facing Richie. He didn’t even check where he was sitting, nor seem to care about the dirt or dust that would cling to his skin. Or the insects that would be hiding amongst the rocks. As if sensing Richie’s next invasive question, he continued. It was like seeing Eddie finally peel back a layer of himself. Finally let Richie in, just a little bit. “Wendy is a lady I see sometimes who I talk to about all sorts of things. She’s the lady who told me that I need to do my scrapbook. She tells me to do a bunch of stuff, but my mom doesn’t like her either. But I have to see her anyway.” Richie frowned, not really understanding any of this. It was all confusing to him – from Eddie not having a dad, to the weird family situation, and the Wendy woman. They were pieces of the puzzle with clearer imagery but details that Richie couldn’t make out for the life of him. And because of this, he was quiet, staring down at his hands as he found himself UnTwizzling his own Twizzler. Eddie brought his legs up to his chest, resting his chin atop his knees.

“I don’t want to leave.” Eddie finally said, softer this time, like he was suddenly afraid of speaking out too loud. “I want… I wanna stay here with you. I want it to be summer here forever. I don’t want to go back to my mom’s, or to school. I don’t have anyone to talk to there except Wendy and she has to talk to me and she doesn’t like any of the stuff I like and she’s like, 35.” Eddie exhaled in a rush of words, and Richie felt his chest constrict in a way that felt all too much. Like he could suddenly hardly breathe, like he had forgotten to. Eddie looked that way too, his jaw clenched in a way that looked uncomfortable as he ground his teeth.

“I don’t want you to go, either. But… But you can call me. And I can write you. It’ll be cool. Pen-pals and shit, right? And next time you come here, we can hang out again all summer. Surely, it won’t be that bad. You must miss your momma.” Richie said, trying to at least make Eddie feel a bit better. Or himself, for that matter. He wasn’t even really sure anymore. Eddie didn’t miss a beat in his response, sounding almost panicked.

“I do! I do. I love my mom. She’s my best friend. I mean; aside from you. You’re like my first proper friend who isn’t my mom.” Eddie explained, and Richie didn’t say that he thought it was weird that his best friend was his mom. Richie’s mom could never be his best friend. Eddie’s mom sounded weird, not cool enough to be a cool friend to have. Richie decided to finish his Twizzler as his hands were getting uncomfortably sticky from playing too long with his food. “I just… I don’t know. I haven’t had fun like this before. I love my mom, I really do. But… sometimes I feel like she doesn’t like me all that much. Even though she says she does. And she never lets me do things, really. She gets scared because I was a sickly baby, and she says she doesn’t want me to get sick too. And I don’t want to get sick too. But sometimes I just want to… to…” Eddie sighed, his shoulders slumping as he looked at Richie with big brown eyes. He looked… sad. And Richie didn’t understand. None of this made sense to him; but he wanted Eddie to feel like he understood anyway. And he was just happy Eddie was finally telling him something. Even if he was leaving soon, and Richie didn’t understand what he meant, and he didn’t even understand how Eddie hadn’t had his dad for three years. He didn’t understand how Eddie’s mom couldn’t like her own son, or why she seemed to hate everyone around her. Eddie was such a cool kid; she must have known that at least.

“I just wish I could stay. Just for a bit more.” Eddie sounded like he was going to cry, and Richie felt like he was going to cry too. But he didn’t want to – he didn’t want to cry, because he knew he wouldn’t stop and it wouldn’t make Eddie feel any better. He wanted to help, but he really didn’t know how he could, especially when it was about things he didn’t really get.

“It’s okay, Eddie,” Richie offered softly. He reached out, and he grabbed Eddie’s hand. He saw his mom do that when she was trying to make her friends feel better, when they came over and got upset and would cry about something. He held his hand, squeezing it in his own. Eddie returned the squeeze, albeit a little weakly. “It won’t be long. And we can write, we can call. You’ll be back before you know it.”

Eddie smiled, and Richie continued to hold his hand for a while until he looked like he wasn’t going to cry anymore. And Richie knew Eddie well enough to know that he was probably the first person, aside from Wendy, that Eddie had ever really talked to about anything. About his mom, or his dad, or his grandma, or how he felt. And while Richie wasn’t really sure what to make of it all, he did know that that was something he really ought to feel special about.

*

It seemed like Richie’s mom knew more about Eddie than Richie himself did. And that bothered Richie right down to the core. He knew it was probably because his mom was good friends with Mrs. S and frequently did things for and with her – but it still bothered him. Eddie was _his_ friend, not his mom’s, and she wasn’t even telling him the things she knew. He had tried talking to her about it, but his mom would often give him short answers and change the conversation, so it was pretty clear that that avenue for discussion was off the table. Richie had pretty much given up on pestering her for new information after a week of consistently being shut down and told that she didn’t know what he was talking about. Richie knew she did, because he knew his mom, and he knew when she was lying. He just didn’t understand what it could possibly be that she knew that was such a big secret that she couldn’t tell him about it. He knew a lot about Eddie, and Eddie knew a lot about him – so what was it that Mrs. S told his mom that was so highly classified that he wasn’t allowed to know?

On the day Eddie told Richie about his dad and his mom and his grandma and a woman named Wendy (whoever that even was), Richie got home at his usual time before dinner. He must have seemed some sort of way, as his mom looked up at him from her position over the cooktop as he opened the fridge to absently scan for something to eat.

“Richard don’t eat now. You’ll spoil your dinner.” Maggie reminded, chancing a glance up at him. Richie pulled a face but listened, pouring himself a glass of OJ instead. “What’s on your mind, sugarpea? You seem like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders today.” Richie watched as she stirred the pot, as the steam rose from where she stood and curled along the cupboard handles before completely disappearing from sight. He wondered what Eddie’s mom looked like. If she was like his mom, or like Stan’s or Bill’s mom. He wondered if she was pretty. If she was pretty like his mom, or pretty like the women in movies, or pretty like the women in magazines. He wondered what her voice sounded like, and what she would make for dinner. Would she tuck Eddie in at night? Would she hug him, would she help him with schoolwork, would she comb his hair?

“Momma,” Richie took a sip from his glass, licking his top lip free before he continued. “Do you know what Eddie’s mom is like?” He watched and waited for a response, however there wasn’t one straight away. Maggie continued to cook, almost as if she hadn’t heard him when he knew she very much had. But she didn’t change the conversation or tell him to mind his own business. So he continued. “Eddie told me some things today. Did you know his dad died when he was 7? That he got sick, and now it’s just him and his mom, all alone?”

“I did know that, yes.” Maggie responded, and Richie frowned down at the glass in his hand. “But it’s not our place to tell others the intimate details of other people’s lives. Some things are private, and I want Eddie to be able to decide what he wants to tell people for himself.” She tapped the spoon on the edge of the cookware, swiping her finger across it to taste before she reached for some spices Richie didn’t know the name of. “I don’t know much about Eddie’s mother. I know she likes doing things a certain way. She loves her son very much.”

Richie felt weird, like he had swallowed a bunch of dirt and that it was making his stomach churn and tighten and flip-flop everywhere. He couldn’t describe it, but it felt bad and sickening, and he tried to drink more OJ to try and make it go away.  
“I don’t know about that, mom. Eddie said she doesn’t let him do a whole lot, and he seems like he doesn’t really want to go home. He was really upset today. And he tells me these things sometimes that make me feel a bit worried. Like about how his mom never let him have soda, or that she would tell him all these weird things would make him sick. He tells me he has to take all these medications because he’s sick, but he doesn’t seem sick to me at all. I don’t… I don’t know, mom. She sounds scary.” Richie wasn’t particularly good at talking about his worries or concerns, but he did try. He tried, even if he felt like the words weren’t right and that he didn’t make a whole lot of sense. But the feeling remained. The feeling of _wrong_. He didn’t want Eddie to go.

Maggie turned the knob for the cooktop down, turning to look at Richie as she wiped her hands on her apron. She had an expression on her face he couldn’t quite understand – but it was something soft. Richie only really noticed then that his face was hot, and his hands were shaky, and his throat felt painful like when he was trying not to cry. And he was crying, a little bit, and he felt like a dumb baby for crying over something that he couldn’t even understand nor name. But his mom didn’t yell, or tell him he was stupid, or tell him to get over it. No, she walked over to him and took him into her arms. As Richie held onto her, he couldn’t help but wonder if Eddie ever had this. If his mom hugged him when he cried, if he told his mom how he felt. He wondered how alone it could feel if Eddie had no friends, no brothers or sisters, no dad, and a mom who never let him live.

“I don’t know what to do, mom. I don’t want him to go home. I’m scared he won’t come back next year, or that his mom won’t let him leave. He was so upset, momma.” Richie wiped at his eyes with his sleeve almost angrily, sniffling as he tried to be a grown up and not keep crying and making a fool of himself. Maggie hummed and tucked his head beneath her chin. She swayed him from side to side, squeezing him in her arms. She smelt like home, and her, and food, and Richie never realised how grateful he was. To have a mom and a dad and a sister and friends, to be able to go out on his bike, to be able to be a kid. Even if it was hard, sometimes.

“Sometimes there’s nothing we can do, buttercup. We want to save everyone, to make everything better. But a lot of the time, we can’t do much at all. It’s frustrating and scary. Especially when it’s somebody you care about that is hurting.” Maggie squeezed his shoulders, before she took his glasses off and wiped them with the cuff of her sleeve. She placed them back on Richie’s face, cupping his cheeks in her hands. “You’re a sweet boy, Richie. You have a lot to give, but sometimes you don’t know how to give it. You’ll learn in time, I promise.” She smiled, and Richie felt exhausted enough that he could probably go to bed right then and there. “Eddie will come back next year. And the year after that. You give him our phone number and address, and the time will fly by. Just you wait.” Maggie’s words and embrace were a comfort to him, but there was still a lingering manifestation of emotion that hung around within Richie. While they ate dinner, while he showered, while he read his comics, and while he tried to sleep. His brain raced with thoughts, worries and anxieties, keeping him awake for a lot longer than he usually was. He tried to repeat to himself that his mom was right, that she knew what she was talking about.

But did she? Did she even listen? Did she truly understand?

How could she when Richie himself barely did? Maybe he was thinking about it too much, but he couldn’t shake the feeling in his gut no matter what he did. The cold clutches of dread, similar to the feelings he got when he thought about Bowers and his gang, or when he got his report card, or when his parents spoke to his teachers about his ‘recent behaviour’, or when he thought up scenarios in which Eddie would decide he liked hanging out with Bill more than him. It was the sort of feeling that made him feel physically ill, like he had some sort of food poisoning or something. It was one of the worst feelings in the world, and there was nothing he could do about it. Nothing at all.

*

Eddie ended up leaving just like he said he would, and just like Richie knew he would. However, there was part of him – a large part of him – that didn’t want to accept that that was the way things were and had to be. He hoped that for some reason, Eddie would stay. That Richie would keep waking up on the same morning every day, over and over again, so that that day would never come. But it did. Faster than Richie even realised. As the day had drawn closer, Eddie had started acting stranger than usual. Which was saying something, considering he wasn’t exactly not strange in any sense of the word. But Eddie was pointedly more scattered, more distant. He was less sure of himself, less wanting to go outside with Richie to hang out. He seemed to close up again like a clam, speaking a lot less and instead just listening to Richie talk. But it wasn’t in the way he usually did. It was absent, like he wasn’t even really there with him. Like his mind was somewhere else. The lingering feeling in Richie’s stomach didn’t go away. Instead, sometimes it just got worse. Like when he noticed the way Eddie’s posture went back in on itself, or the way he seemed to need his inhaler more and more.

Richie had volunteered to help Mrs. S pack the car and see Eddie off. He kind of regretted suggesting that in the first place as he stood at the curb, looking towards Mrs. S’ house with what felt like a gaping chasm at the pit of his stomach. Usually the house didn’t feel so daunting and cold, but despite the heat baring down on his shoulders, it stood like a testament to the ceaseless churning and clenching Richie felt in every single one of his organs. Richie took a deep breath, though it felt like no oxygen entered his lungs, and he walked up to the front porch to knock on the door.

Eddie answered it, and Richie’s mouth felt dry to the point where it was physically uncomfortable. He swallowed what felt like gravel, standing in place. He wanted to go home. To hide under his blankets and ignore that this was happening. Try and pretend that he didn’t care as much as he did. God, he wanted to not care this much. He wanted to feel like he wasn’t about to cry all the time. He noticed that Eddie looked like he felt similarly. He looked pale and sickly, his brows pulled together in a perpetual frown, his lips downturned. He looked _miserable_ , like someone had hit his dog with a car or something. That feeling in Richie’s stomach only intensified, making him nearly gag into the rosebush beside him.

“Oh, hi Richie.” Eddie croaked; his voice quiet. He barely sounded like himself. Richie nodded, trying to find words and failing pretty spectacularly. He remembered he had brought along some going away gifts (his mom had suggested it) for Eddie, though his arms felt weirdly too long and limp at his sides.

“Here,” Richie blurted out, pushing the plastic bag in Eddie’s direction. It wasn’t much. A few comics that Richie liked and thought Eddie would, some candy he knew Eddie liked, and a can of soda. As Eddie took the bag and looked inside, his cheeks flushed with a rosy pink that reached the tips of his ears, his eyes going slightly glassy as he looked up at him.

“I—Thank you, Richie. I love it.” His lips turned up into a small smile, and before Richie could even think of a way to respond, Eddie stepped forward and wrapped his arms around him in a hug. Eddie had hugged him a few times. Bill and Stan had never hugged him, so it had surprised him. But he didn’t _not_ like it. But this time, he liked it a bit less. It was not so much the sort of hug that was a good type of hug. But it was a bittersweet hug. A hug that was too tight and that meant _goodbye for now_ and Eddie’s palms felt sweaty and Richie’s body felt like it was weighed down with ten tonne anchors. He hugged him back. He tried to think of excuses to leave, to back out on his suggested promise. He didn’t want to help. He didn’t want to say goodbye, he didn’t want to put Eddie’s things in the car. It felt like he was just giving someone a gun, loading the ammunition himself, and telling them to go ahead and shoot him. Richie could only imagine that the pain he felt in his chest was similar to what it would feel like if all of his organs were to be ripped right out.

“I figured you might wanna read something that isn’t man-cats on steroids. So, I got you comics about a rich guy with no parents who decides to beat up bad guys in his spare time and some weird one about fighting turtles and a rat. Come to think of it, they all sound pretty dumb.” Richie shrugged, and Eddie’s smile grew a little more as he peeked into the bag again. “Dude, you look like you’re on your way to a funeral. You look terrible. Did your grandma’s cat die too or something? Because fuck, that thing is evil.” Eddie laughed – _score_ – his eyes sparkling a little as he lifted a hand to hide his mouth.

“ _Richie_! No, no, Nela is alive unfortunately. Very much alive. She scratched the fuck out of me last night when I was trying to feed her. I swear to god, if I fucking get rabies from her I’m suing.” Eddie’s small smile broke into a grin, wide and toothy, a glimpse of how he had been a week before. Richie’s favourite Eddie. He could be so pretty. “This turtle comic looks really weird. Like… what is it even called? _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_? And you’re saying this is better than Thundercats? At least Thundercats aren’t actual mutant cats and don’t use karate to solve all their issues. I—”

Eddie cut himself off, looking past Richie. For a moment, Richie was confused as to what exactly made Eddie stop talking, what wiped that smile right off his face. But as he turned on his heel and saw that the brilliant red car was now sitting idle in the driveway, he understood all at once. It felt almost like an omen, unreal and symbolic. The smile that was on Eddie’s face was gone without a trace of it even being there in the first place, and Richie felt his heart in his throat and eardrums. Deafening, the blood rushing through him so fast it was dizzying.

“Oh! Just on time.” Mrs. S’ cheerful voice pierced through the air between the both of them but Richie couldn’t peel his eyes away from the vehicle. Who was inside it? He almost felt like no one was inside it – maybe the grim reaper, ready to take Eddie to hell. “Hello Richie! You’re just on time too, aren’t you? We have Eddie’s stuff all packed up here and ready to go.” Mrs. S spoke again, and Richie had to force himself to turn to look at her. His body felt wooden as he willed himself, with all his might, to smile at her and move which felt completely and entirely unnatural for him to be doing. But he did it anyway. Eddie picked up a bag with shaky hands, and Richie grabbed a suitcase by the handle. He heard the car door open, the engine’s low rumble coming to a halt.

“Eddiebear, baby!”

Richie’s whole body and soul cringed. He felt as if he was in an ancient labyrinth, and the minotaur was right behind him. Or Medusa or some shit. He forced himself to turn around, to finally see what he assumed to be Eddie’s mother.

She was a stark contrast to her son. She was the biggest woman Richie had ever seen. Not only was she quite large in the physical sense, but there was just something else about her. The loudness of her voice, the way Eddie seemed to shrink down as he skittered over to her. He looked even smaller by comparison to her. She reminded Richie of one of those photos he saw in books – spiders with their prey all wound up in their webs, ready to devour. Her shrill voice continued to ring out and assault Richie’s ears as she cooed over her son, checking over him almost frantically as if expecting to see him with a limb missing. “Oh, Eddie. I’ve missed you so much, sugarbear. You’ve been taking your medication, right? Look at you, so tan. You’ve been in the sun for far too much time! Don’t you remember what I told you about melanomas? We’ll need to get your freckles checked again as soon as we get home. You know, Eddie, I’ve been so lonely at home without you! I’ve just missed my baby boy so much, momma can hardly bare to have her baby so far away for so long.”

Richie felt like he was intruding on something he shouldn’t be. But he couldn’t look away as the woman – who only vaguely resembled her son – checked over every part of his body. Even going so far as to check his teeth. She spoke to him almost like some people spoke to their dogs, or babies, and Eddie wasn’t a baby. He was ten. Richie had never heard a mom talk to their ten-year-old sons like that, and it made him feel weird. He chanced a look at Mrs. S in the doorway, who’s jaw was set as she watched the woman in her driveway. Her usually warm gaze was steely and cold, but she didn’t say a word. His mom was talking about heat stroke and dehydration as Richie shifted his weight, wondering if he should just leave. He was seriously contemplating it but felt a hand on his shoulder that stopped him right in his tracks.

“Stay, Richie.” Mrs. S murmured softly, and Richie had no idea why he had to be here at all because it seemed like a bad idea now, and Eddie’s mom was fucking scary as fuck and _weird_ , like not even a good kind of weird. Like a crazy lady sort of weird, not even the sort of weird he wanted to make jokes about. But he stayed, because Mrs. S _told_ him to, and he didn’t really have an option to say no in that case. Mrs. S would tell his mom, and his mom would get super angry at him for being rude. Not to mention, it would be a betrayal to Eddie, and Mrs. S could probably kick his ass. She could definitely kick Richie’s ass.

“And who’s this?”

Richie felt his stomach drop to his shoes as Eddie’s mom seemed to finally notice him. She was staring directly at him, her hands perched on Eddie’s shoulders as she positioned him in front of her. He was reminded of an eagle’s talons, or a vulture. Her grip looked painful. Her gaze pierced through him, cold and unmoving, like she was judging everything about him and everything he’d done in his life and was going to do all at once. It was like she could see everything he’d ever done wrong, could read his mind or some shit. Jesus fucking _Christ_.

“Um,” Richie stammered, before clearing his throat. Come on, Richie. Grow a fucking pair. She’s just Eddie’s mom. “Uh, Richie Tozier. I’m—I live down the road. Eddie’s my friend.”

“Oh, really? Is he your friend, Eddie?” She looked down to Eddie who murmured a ‘yes momma’ that made Richie’s toes curl in his shoes in discomfort. “How _nice_. I’m Sonia. Eddie’s mother. I’m so glad he made a friend over the summer. I was so scared he would be so lonely without me. We do everything together, don’t we, Eddie?” Eddie’s mom – Sonia – had a voice that was like artificial sweetener. It made Richie feel like his teeth were going to rot out of his skull. “Well, thank you for that, Richie. I always remind Eddie that it’s important not to judge a book by it’s cover.”

_What was that even supposed to mean?_

“Come on, Eddie. We’re going to go home now.”

“Oh, I have his suitcase here.” Richie interrupted, and Sonia’s face contorted as she looked at him for a split second. Something akin to disdain, like he was something on the sole of her shoe.

“You shouldn’t be touching things that don’t belong to you. He has serious allergies, you know. He could have a reaction from cross contamination. You should be more careful and considerate of these things before you seriously hurt someone. I doubt you even remember the last time you washed your hands.” Sonia snapped at him, and Richie blinked in surprise as those words sunk in. He couldn’t even think of anything to say. Richie looked at his hand on the handle of the suitcase, his grip sweaty. His brain could barely work through what she had just said, what the meanings were behind her words and sentences. He knew that she was just _not nice_.

“Mom, he washed his hands just before you arrived. Please don’t say things like that to my friend.” Eddie protested – though it sounded more akin to a plea - to which Sonia’s demeanour changed _again_. Her expression softened as she smoothed Eddie’s hair back and out of his face. Richie felt like he was going to develop a form of mental whiplash from everything that was unfolding in front of him. He felt like if he even tried to explain this to his mom she wouldn’t believe him in the slightest.

“I need to protect you, Eddiebear. Not everyone is considerate that some people are unwell. Well, come on then, Richie _Tozier_.” The way she said his name sounded like it was acid on her tongue, like she was spitting out every syllable, that she wanted it as far away from her as she could manage. Eddie still didn’t meet his eyes, keeping his gaze down and away from him as he approached with the suitcase. Sonia popped open the trunk, watching him like a hawk as he placed it inside, before stepping away. “Thank you. Eddie shouldn’t be doing any heavy lifting in his condition. But, we really can’t risk the cross contamination. If he so much as smells certain things, he could realistically die. Eddie is a special child.”

Richie didn’t like being close to her any more than he did far away. She smelt like cheap-but-expensive perfume. She wasn’t pretty, she wasn’t warm, she wasn’t friendly. She was like an evil stepmother, coming to steal Eddie away and lock him up for a thousand years. Not to mention, he _hated_ the way she treated Eddie. She talked to him like he was so sickly he was unable to do a thing for himself when Richie knew he could do a whole lot. He knew Eddie could wrestle, and he knew he could run fast, and he knew he could throw heavy things, and he knew he could carve into trees, and he knew that the smell of nuts didn’t kill him. And yet Sonia was so firm in every word, and was so unwavering in her glare, that Richie felt almost as if he should question himself. Did he see that? Or was it all a fever dream?

“We’re going to leave now. Say goodbye to your friend for the summer, Eddie.” Sonia instructed, and Richie scrunched up his face. _No_ , he wanted to argue. _Eddie will be my friend forever, just you see_. But he bit his tongue for once in his life.

“Goodbye, Richie.” Eddie smiled and waved at him, already being crowded into the car by his mother. She had ignored Mrs. S’ presence, even as Eddie tried to say goodbye to his grandma too. It was rude. But everything about Sonia seemed rude. And not in the Richie sort of way, the clumsy, too-fast-thinking sort of way. It was a mean sort of rude. She was just a mean, mean woman, and Richie could see that through and through, clear as daylight. And he hated that Eddie had to go home with her because Mrs. S was so much nicer and never talked to anyone like that. Sonia got into the car after closing Eddie’s door, and started up the engine. Richie just watched; his hands shoved into his pockets. He wasn’t sure what to expect, but he didn’t expect Sonia to reappear, getting out of the car in an obvious huff as she made a beeline straight for Richie and shoved the can of soda right into his hands.

“Don’t you ever give soda to my child ever again. Do you understand me? Eddie is a _sick boy_. Too much sugar will do a lot of damage to his body. If you can’t handle that responsibility, stay away from sick children. Jesus.” Sonia scolded him, harsher than even Richie’s own mother had done so, glowering down at him with clear scorn written across all her features. “And take a shower. No one likes a filthy child. Let’s just hope you haven’t given him anything contagious.” And with that, she left for the car again, leaving Richie standing in the driveway like an idiot. His skin felt as if it was crawling, and he wasn’t sure if it was from Sonia’s words, or from the fact that Eddie had a mother that was like _that_. Eddie was so different to her. How could that woman be related to him at all? 

But just like that, Eddie was gone. As quickly as he had arrived, he was practically pushed and folded up into the backseat of a bright red car. Tucked away into the suffocating safety of his overbearing mother’s arms. Richie felt rooted in his spot as he saw Eddie smile and wave at him and Mrs. S from the back window, his small hand and face barely visible. Richie waved back, and he tried to smile, even though it hurt. The soda can in his hand felt like lead – and it felt weird, because it didn’t belong to him. It was Eddie’s soda, not his; something that he had left behind, as far as Richie was concerned. And Richie almost felt like he was left behind, too. Because it hurt. It hurt, so much, to see Eddie drive away – to watch that red car until it disappeared around the corner.

Inside of the comics he had gifted to Eddie, Richie had scribbled down his address and phone number so that they could stay in contact. And he waited patiently (impatiently) to hear from Eddie. He waited for days, for weeks, loitering around the phone and checking the mailbox multiple times every day. As school started, Richie thought about Eddie still. He thought about him often, about the time they spent together. He tried to commit every detail he could to memory – and he scribbled down notes in his diary of things he wanted to tell Eddie and talk about. Richie even wanted to try and ask Eddie if he could call him on his birthday, as a gift. He just wanted to hear from him and see how things were all the way in another city.

However, a call or letter from Eddie never came. And Richie never forgot about that first summer, in 1986. 


	5. freckles; 1988

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes he tried to force himself to think of nothing. To pretend that he was dead, lying atop his mattress, trying to shallow his breathing until it felt like he was barely breathing at all. And even then, still, Richie’s thoughts would loop back to summer. To moments he had committed to memory, details he had obsessed over. A brush of fingertips over his arm, the taste of pepsi-cola buzzing across his tastebuds, listening to Eddie talk about anything at all. Feeling seen, and understood, and yet so fucking terrified. Of everyone and everything and himself, all at once.

At ten years old, Richie had never realised nor understood that things would change. He had been convinced that, for some reason unknown to him, he was excluded from the side-effects that came hand-in-hand with the passage of time. In his mind’s eye he saw himself as he was at ten-years-old forever; caked in dirt from endless days spent discovering what the world had to offer him, covered in scrapes and bruises and wearing the same clothes for an entire week. In particular, he was convinced that he was going to loop back to that summer in 1986; that school would conclude and the sky would be a cartoonish blue, punctuated with pure white picturesque clouds, and Eddie would arrive on the horizon in that bright red car and things would go back to the way they were. The way they _ought_ to be. But they didn’t. Richie was not immune to time, nor the everchanging metamorphosis of childhood. Summer 1986 became a memory similar to a pleasant dream; vivid in some areas, blurred in others, yet ever-present. Richie found himself daydreaming about what had happened during those months, trying to recapture those feelings of bursting energy and joy and restlessness. Sometimes, he would question whether or not certain details were authentic or if they had been accidentally merged in with his actual memories from dreams or movies. Was Eddie really that small? Were his eyes brown? Did his voice actually sound like that? Was his mother truly as bad as Richie remembered her being? Seasons changed, months passed, Richie moved into the next grade at school, and he wasn’t so sure anymore.

Eddie did come back the next year in 1987. It was as if an entire year hadn’t passed. Nothing had really changed between them, even with the radio-silence from Eddie’s end. Eddie had become almost abstract concept in Richie’s brain at that point. He hadn’t expected the short boy to turn up in exactly a year’s time, let alone to smile at Richie with those brilliant white teeth and greet him with a warmth that seemed to come from the very depths of his chest. They had both grown, which was the only truly noticeable difference as far as Richie was concerned. Richie was shooting up like a weed, his arms and legs thin and lanky as he had begun the very first steps into puberty (unbeknownst to him). Eddie, on the other hand, seemed as if he had grown a few inches at best – but he was still considerably smaller than Richie, or any of the other boys, for that matter. It was almost as if he had stepped out of a time capsule or had simply gone home for the afternoon only to step out a whole year later in Richie-time. Like the way the first Eddie-centric summer had passed, 1987 was not much different. It came and went like the sweetest whirlwind in Richie’s life; uprooting everything and shaking it up in the best possible way. Every day was swollen with opportunity and promise, as they would do pretty much the same things they had the year prior.

They would search for cryptids, landmark archaeological discoveries, and lost civilisations in the forest-y tree-lines; they would try and catch as many worms and bugs that they possibly could in empty-jam jars Richie would pull out of trashcans (much to Eddie’s horror); they would spend hours upon hours lazing in the fields of grass near the park, or under the big tree that stood like a testament to their friendship. They hung out with Bill and Stan too, and towards the end of the summer they met another kid who ended up clicking right into place amongst the group of them – Mike Hanlon, from a few streets down. While Richie and Eddie were attached at the hip and spent a majority of their summer days in the presence of one another, there were quite a number of days they would hang out all together. The quarry was a prime destination for these meetings, where they would just talk shit and try not to crinkle and fold under the sweltering heat. On particularly hot days, they had begun to strip down to their underwear and wade into the waters to cool down. They’d play chicken fight or see who could hold their breaths for the longest (Eddie always lost) or make up games with rules that were vague at best. They found a rock that was the perfect make-shift diving platform, which Eddie had been greatly sceptical about in the first place as he was convinced that someone was going to break every single bone in their body from some monumental type of impact. He swore up and down until his pale face was splotched with pink that he wasn’t going to risk breaking his spine just so he could cannonball into the water like everyone else did – until one day, he did. It was as if a switch had flicked overnight; and as they all crowded at the top of the jumping rock, beads of sweat collecting on their brows, Eddie said that he was the one to go first.

Richie had always thought Eddie was incredibly brave, and incredibly smart, and incredibly good at everything he could imagine; and those perceptions remained unchallenged through June to August, where Eddie would take his supposed limitations and smash through them with a determination that made Richie’s gut swoop. He would have this furrow to his brow, his jaw set, his big eyes focused and unwavering, and Richie wished that he could one day have at least a fraction of what it was that made Eddie, _Eddie_. It was as if Eddie was constantly remembering the internalised words of his mother – words Richie had only had the chance to hear once, and even then, he didn’t remember exactly what it was that she said, only the gist of it – and that sometimes they would be so heavy and overbearing that he couldn’t leave the safety of Mrs. S’ house; but other times, they would be fuel to an ever-burning fire that crackled away in Eddie’s core.

Eddie was still riddled with the same anxieties he had carried the first time, if not more so. It was as if their time apart had made certain parts of Eddie’s neurotic tendencies worsen. And Richie sometimes didn’t notice, but most times he really did. While he was more willing to push himself in some situations and step outside of his comfort and safety zones, there were other things. He still maintained quite a few of the odd habits Richie had observed prior, but there were new ones now. Or maybe he just had more opportunity to notice them. Eddie would pick at his nails; rip the skin from his nailbeds until they were raw and bleeding. He would sometimes speak in a way that didn’t sound like him; like it was someone else speaking through him, a weird possession of his mother. He also called his mother more. He had to be home at a specific time every night to do just that, and the few times he had accidentally lost track of time had resulted in Eddie losing his absolute shit. He would cry and hyperventilate and get himself into such a state that he would begin retching into the gutter, barely able to keep himself upright. Those incidents left Richie feeling a weird sort of raw; shaken up and unwell with concern and unable to sleep once he laid in bed for hours trying to sleep. But morning come, Eddie would be mostly fine – and would never mention what had unfolded hours before. Richie had learnt that Eddie was, above all, a good actor and a good liar. Richie sometimes felt like he was the only one who noticed these things about Eddie; the way he sometimes spoke with sentences that had multiple meanings. Riddles, almost, that Richie would try desperately to unravel in his 11-year-old brain. Richie didn’t know kids like Eddie. Kids who smiled in a way that wouldn’t reach their eyes. Kids who said things like ‘ _I love my mom’_ , ‘ _I miss my mom’_ and ‘ _my mom only wants what’s best for me_ ’ with a brutal intensity that knocked the breath from Richie’s lungs. He wanted to pry Eddie’s life open and look inside. He wanted to pack himself up into his suitcase and return with him to Massachusetts after the summer concluded. So he could understand, so he could be there. Just so he could be there.

Even with all the similarities between the two years, Richie couldn’t entirely deny that there was something else new. A shift, a difference that came from within him. He didn’t understand it, nor did he entirely know where it had come from or when it had started. He hadn’t even really noticed it before June of his eleventh year, when he was nearly taller than his mother already and he felt like his limbs were always too long and in the way. He had noticed other things before then – changes in his body, like how he had gone up a bunch of shoe sizes and his jeans were always too small, how he sweat more, and smelt bad more often than he would like to admit. He noticed that he felt things more intensely than he had before, that he would get angry or sad for reasons unknown to him. He’d never admit it, but he had spent a lot of time in the bathroom inspecting his body and wondering if there was something wrong with him. Noticing the way that certain parts of him didn’t look the way they did before.

He read in a book in the library, after working himself up to the point of thinking he was dying, that he was starting puberty. He read everything he could on it (without the librarian noticing) because the thought of talking to his parents about it was too horrifying to even consider. He was the first one out of all his friends to start puberty, he was sure of it. Which was fantastic (not at all) as it was just another thing to alienate him from everybody else. Eddie definitely hadn’t reached puberty either, from what Richie could gather. He was still the smallest of the group despite the year’s blessing of a few inches. He always smelt good, and he didn’t have weird proportions. And with the onset of Richie’s prepubescence aligning perfectly with the summer months, it only made things in his life more complicated and weird. Weird, not only because of all the ways his body was beginning to change, but also weird because Richie was feeling and noticing things he hadn’t ever felt or noticed before. He wasn’t exactly the best at understanding his own feelings in the first place, but he knew that the cluster of whatever he was experiencing was new. And it was bigger than him, and he didn’t understand it, and it was almost too much for him to bear.

And it only really started with Eddie. Or rather, he had only begun to notice that it was even there at all when Eddie arrived. He didn’t know how to describe it, or what the experience even was. It was intense – he wanted to be around Eddie _all the time_ , he wanted to be the one that made him laugh all the time, he wanted to know everything he could about him. He would so easily get jealous when Eddie was hanging out with other people, when his attention as elsewhere. He wanted _all his fucking attention all of the fucking time_ – he wanted him to _see Richie_ , he wanted Eddie’s eyes on him so much that it made him restless. And it was a whole lot of restlessness, it was. Richie felt restless all the time - worse than usual when it came to the short boy from across the street. He wanted Eddie’s approval on everything he said or did, and when he couldn’t get that he would get his attention by purposefully pushing his buttons and pissing him off. And he felt like a creep, and he was a creep, and there was something wrong with him in some way because he just couldn’t stop thinking about him. Again, not in the same way he had during the first summer. His head was full of thoughts about if Eddie would like this, or if Eddie would want that, or to remind himself to tell Eddie this, or talk to him about that. He had begun noticing things too. He had always noticed things about Eddie, but in this particular summer, he had noticed things he had paid no mind to beforehand. He would pay attention to what Eddie wore every-day, the way he did his hair. He would pick up on the way he looked when he laughed and didn’t cover his face, the way the sun filtered through his brown hair, how dark and long his eyelashes were. He had memorised the shade of brown in his eyes, the way his lips pouted when he was deep in thought. He watched Eddie like this a lot – because he was a fucking weirdo – and he liked to think it was because he wanted to commit that summer’s details closer to memory than he had beforehand. He told himself it was nothing, even when he found himself trying to count the freckles that dusted Eddie’s plump cheeks. Even when he felt the weird swoop in his chest and gut when Eddie jumped from the rock and into the water (those freckles dotted his shoulders and his back, and his clothes always fit him so nicely, unlike Richie who felt like he was all the wrong proportions all the time).

Eddie was pretty to Richie. He was prettier than anyone he had ever seen. And it was weird, because Stan and Bill had talked about pretty girls at school, and Richie knew they were pretty in an objective way; but Eddie was a different kind of pretty. A sort of pretty that made Richie feel things he didn’t comprehend and that were never explained to him by anybody, and that scared him, and that he would shove deep, deep inside of him. Folded like a piece of paper until it was too small to be compartmentalised anymore. He knew there was something wrong with him. And at 11 he knew he couldn’t tell a soul, because boys didn’t call other boys pretty. Boys were supposed to want girlfriends, and to hold hands and kiss girls and have wives, Richie knew that. But Richie didn’t care for any of that. He hoped that in time, that would change. He hoped, and hoped, and sometimes he would pray that things would change. That he would change. That this was just some weird side effect of the changes he was going through, that Eddie was just extraordinarily pretty for a guy. That there was nothing wrong with him, and that he would end up just like his father, Wentworth. Happy, with a wife and children and working a 9-5 job. White picket fence American dream, where things were safe, and your future was so clearly in front of you that there was nothing to worry about. That at some point, Richie wouldn’t lay wide awake in bed and ask God why this was all happening to him, and to let him understand.

But things only got worse. Richie thought that things would sort themselves out, that he would untangle the mess inside of him as soon as Eddie left again. And he left again at the end of the summer, back to Massachusetts with his dragon of a mother, but that untangling never happened. Time didn’t stop, even if Richie needed it to so he could catch his breath. And he continued to grow, and his body continued to change, as he turned twelve and felt like sometimes, he could take on the world. Once again, he heard nothing from Eddie after he disappeared in that car. He was just gone, leaving Richie feeling like he was suffocating on his own breaths, under the weight of the burden of self. He hadn’t asked Eddie why he didn’t contact him last time; he hadn’t remembered, and when he had, he had thought that maybe it would seem weird if he did that. Like he was being just like his mother, demanding Eddie to check in with him all the time and ask him where he was and what he was doing and who he was with. That didn’t stop Richie from waiting, though, albeit a little more reserved. He didn’t expect anything this time around, but that didn’t stop him from hoping. And thinking, thinking, thinking. The thinking never really stopped. Sometimes he tried to force himself to think of nothing. To pretend that he was dead, lying atop his mattress, trying to shallow his breathing until it felt like he was barely breathing at all. And even then, still, Richie’s thoughts would loop back to summer. To moments he had committed to memory, details he had obsessed over. A brush of fingertips over his arm, the taste of pepsi-cola buzzing across his tastebuds, listening to Eddie talk about anything at all. Feeling seen, and understood, and yet so fucking terrified. Of everyone and everything and himself, all at once.

The summer of 1989 was the year Richie got his first set of braces. Despite Richie’s vehement protests, his father fitted him with the garish metal contraption. He would reassure Richie that it was the best option in the long run, but Richie begged him to remove them for weeks and weeks afterwards. Having braces and glasses was a death sentence as far as he was concerned; just another ring added to the target painted on Richie’s back begging for Bowers to torment him even more. Twelve-years-old was a particularly unforgiving age for Richie, even without the addition of becoming a certified bug-eyed brace-face. He was significantly taller than most people in his year level at school, and he was starting to get acne on his back and his face, and his voice was starting to get squeaky and crackly. While everyone in his group had started the whole puberty thing at this point, Richie was significantly further along than all of them. Sometimes it felt like a badge of honour, like when one of his friends would ask him for advice about their own experience and changes (except for Beverly, in which Richie could only relay to her what he had read in books). But a lot of the time, it made Richie feel like a fucking freak. It gave the Bowers gang even more ammunition, even though they were far from lacking in the first place. Richie just happened to be the perfect target, and that year Bowers was feeling particularly brutal.

The summer break came seemingly out of nowhere. Richie wasn’t even sure if Eddie was going to come there for the third summer in a row. He had his doubts, even though his mom had told him that Mrs. S had told her all about his visit for the year. And in a way, he dreaded it. A cold sort of dread that settled in the pit of his stomach and mixed badly with the Eddie-related excitement and anticipation. He didn’t know what to expect. Would Eddie have changed? Would he want to hang out with Richie? Did Richie want to hang out with him? _Yes_ , of course. He always wanted to hang out with Eddie. He was his best friend in the entire universe, and yet, as Richie saw a familiar red car turning the corner onto their street on the first blistering day of summer break, he felt his stomach knot and flip. His hands felt sweaty as he sat on his porch steps, squinting at the vehicle in a way he knew was most likely not particularly flattering. He had been tying up his newest pair of sneakers but had to stop as his palms got sticky and slick with sweat.

Of course, he had missed Eddie. And he wanted to see him, and hang out, like old times. But there was this underlying feeling of tension, of knowing, of discomfort. They weren’t 10 anymore. Richie hadn’t played pretend for an entire year. And he knew that the moment he saw Eddie, those disconcerting and disorientating feelings from last year would sweep in and knock him right off his feet. The white-hot fear that would rush through his veins, the paranoia, because he felt so _much,_ and Eddie was the prettiest boy he had ever seen and Richie didn’t know how to deal with that. He didn’t know how to deal with a lot to be fair, but he especially didn’t know how to deal with _that_.

Richie was about to head back into his house so he could take a moment to think how the fuck he was going to approach the whole Eddie-deal-situation, and also change into something nicer because he was wearing a gross old tee and some ratty shorts to go and do some chores for his parents and he didn’t want Eddie to think he was a complete rat. But unfortunately for him, Eddie had seen him from the window of his mom’s car, and by the time Richie had stood up to duck back into his residence for safety, Eddie was calling out to him from Mrs. S’ driveway.

“ _Fuck_.” Richie cursed, standing a few steps from his front door, only one shoe sloppily tied. His heart hammered in his chest, against his ribs, and he was sure he was going to puke into his mom’s favourite shrubbery.

“Richie!” Eddie called out again, waving one hand frantically at him. “Hey, Rich! It’s me, Eddie! Come here!” Of course, he knew it was Eddie. _How could he forget?_ Richie had to force himself to move from the spot he was cemented in, each leg feeling like lead as he crossed the street. He wished he had forgotten his glasses on the kitchen counter, but for once, he hadn’t. Eddie was clear as day, and only getting clearer, until Richie was standing right in front of him. He had hoped that Eddie would have gotten hideously ugly in the past year. That he would hate Richie for some reason and refuse to speak to him. But none of that had happened. Eddie was still very much Eddie. He was taller, but still short and still small. His skin was completely clear of any sort of imperfection, and his hair was a little longer than usual. His jaw was sharper than Richie remembered it being, and his shoulders were a little broader set. And Richie felt like his world was ending, and that all his organs were in his throat. Eddie was still pretty, maybe even prettier than last year and Richie felt a deep hatred for that fact, and for himself, blossoming from the very depths of his chest. It was normal to be able to tell when your friend is pretty – he knew Beverly was pretty, for example, and that was totally fine. He was just jealous that Eddie wasn’t like him; glasses, and braces, and pizza-faced, and sweaty.

And what made it worse, was that Eddie just smiled at him. A broad smile, the one Richie liked most, his teeth brilliantly white and straight and brace-less. His big brown eyes sparkling in the high afternoon sun.

“Hey, Rich. You got really tall, huh? Jeez.” Eddie whistled, and Richie’s mouth was dry, and he had to wipe his palms along his shorts.

“Not all of us are legally gnomes, fuck.” Richie blurted out a response, his brain going too fast and too slow all at once, and Eddie laughed before wrapping his arms tightly around his ribcage. The top of Eddie’s head barely reached his shoulder, and yet Richie felt like he was squeezing the fucking life out of him. He prayed Eddie couldn’t feel the hammering of his heartbeat, that he didn’t get grossed out by him, or comment on how his hands were clammy with nerves.

“It’s good to be back, man. Massachusetts sucks. I can’t wait to hang out with someone who isn’t my mom.” Eddie declared as he pulled away from the sudden embrace, his hands on his hips. “Anyway, I gotta go unpack and say hi to babcia. See you tomorrow?”

By the time Richie could respond, Eddie had picked up his luggage and bounced up the steps, knocking on the door that played such an influential symbolic role in Richie’s last two years. And he stood there, well after he was gone, and wondered when God was going to start listening to his prayers. Or if he was even there at all.


	6. whiskey; 1988

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “What happened to him?” Richie asked, and Wentworth pulled away from his aim, looking over at his son. He was quiet for a moment, his expression seemingly perplexed as he dug through memories older than Richie was.
> 
> “You know, Richie? I don’t know. There were rumours about him. But I think he just… died. Alone, in that house. Sad, but not entirely unexpected. When you choose that life, you choose the consequences just as well.”

Homosexuality was something that Richie didn’t know a lot about. He knew a whole lot about a bunch of random things – he had a habit of developing an interest in something and devouring every book he could get his hands on about it, retaining useless information and facts like a sponge. But homosexuality hadn’t ever been on that radar. Sure, he was vaguely aware of that fact that people like that existed. But it wasn’t something he had ever really been conscious of as a child. In his brain, it was simple. A man and a woman would meet, fall in love, get married, and have children. Sometimes, they would get divorced. The thought of it happening any other way seemed too foreign for him. Sure, gay people existed, but they existed somewhere. And that somewhere wasn’t in his small town. It was almost like a secret held by everybody. The existence of an ‘ _other’ option_ that nobody really ever discussed because it didn’t ever happen, _really_. It was so rare it wasn’t even worth mentioning. For the most part, Richie considered homosexuals to be people who just didn’t find the right man or woman, and that was that. Gay people didn’t fall in love, they didn’t have kids, they didn’t get married, they didn’t _really exist_. They were just a figment of collective imagination, sort of like a bogeyman hiding under the bed.

The first time Richie saw a gay couple was on a Saturday in 1988. It was a normal day. Painfully normal, really. Richie had been dragged out with his mom to get groceries and run errands, despite his fervent protests. With the promise of a can of soda and a new comic, Richie was easily convinced to accompany her; it wasn’t like he had anything else to do, anyway. All of his friends, including Eddie, were busy, leaving Richie half-hanging off his bed in a sleepy sort of boredom while he neglected cleaning his room despite the impressive clutter. So, really, going to the store was probably better than staring at his roof or dozing in and out of sleep until he got a heavy headache. But the day was normal. The drive was normal, the radio played the usual songs, the streets they took were of routine. Richie’s mom asked her usual questions, and nothing was amiss. The only difference was the fact that some people would come through Derry during the summer as tourists. Usually, they would pass through, and no one ever stayed all that long as there wasn’t much to do nor see. But that minute difference, one that Richie had never given a second thought towards any other year, was significant. Earth-shatteringly significant, and he had no idea. He was heading straight into a destruction of everything he thought he knew, and he was truly none the wiser.

They were in the fresh produce section. Richie was talking to his mom about his favourite Buddy Holly song and how he was one of the most monumental and influential figures in modern music history, his voice loud and his words fast. His mom was only half listening as she inspected the tomatoes, trying to pick out the best of the bunch. Richie was bored out of his brain as he fiddled with a paper bag, crunching it up and smoothing it out before he crunched it up again. It was by chance that he looked up and noticed the two men standing by some vegetables Richie didn’t know the names of. He didn’t recognise them; probably tourists, just passing through. They were completely unremarkable. Just normal people, doing normal things. They were dressed like any other person in the supermarket, and Richie should’ve looked away. He really should have, and in any other circumstance he would have. But he didn’t. And God, he _should have just looked away_. Richie was talking about the major influences on Buddy Holly’s music when one of the men reached over to the other and squeezed his hand. Richie’s words died in his mouth, mid-sentence. It was as if the world around him stopped for a second or two, or everything slowed down as all of his focus zeroed in on the two men only a few meters away. The squeeze of the hand. A smile and laugh. Soft, murmured words, a hand on an upper arm. Lingering there, a lingering touch.

_The lingering, accidental touches of fingertips along his forearm; a brief contact that made Richie feel like he had forgotten how to breathe._

They looked at each other in the way Richie had seen his dad look at his mom. The way men looked at women in movies. But this wasn’t his parents, or the movies. It was two men in a grocery store. So painfully normal, but it felt like a punch in Richie’s gut.

Richie’s sudden silence caught the attention of his mom as he didn’t resume his sentence. She had looked up to see why she could no longer hear the background noise of her son’s incessant chatter, following his stare across the store. She didn’t say a word as she grabbed two or three tomatoes, tossing them into a paper bag before he grabbed Richie’s wrist. It was too tight as she tugged him out of the produce section hurriedly, causing Richie to nearly trip over his undone laces. One of the men turned in that moment, and he caught Richie’s eye. It was only a second or two, but Richie’s mouth felt dry, his face hot. He felt as if he had walked in on something immensely private. As if he had seen something he wasn’t ever meant to see. His mom paid for the groceries in a hurry, which was unusual for her, as she liked to have a conversation with the cashier that would usually last for twenty or so minutes and drive Richie up the wall. But today, that conversation was short. And it was too quiet for Richie to hear. Hurried, hushed whispers, glances thrown over their shoulders back in the direction of the two men in the fresh produce isle. Two men who were just doing their shopping, just like Richie and his mom had been. Richie felt a thick, warm shame dribble into his body as he was all but dragged out of the store, chancing a look towards the produce section as they exited the building.

“Richie, stop looking.” His mom hissed at him, yanking his arm. He couldn’t help it, though. He wanted to know if the men were still there. If they were just as normal as Richie had seen them to be, or if they had somehow morphed into aliens, or two-headed circus freaks, or homicidal maniacs. But all he saw was a store clerk talking to them with their hands crossed over their chest, the men looking agitated. Like when his dad couldn’t get the lawnmower to start, or his mom when he found Richie’s dirty dishes in the sink.

“Mom, what was that lady talking to those men about?” Richie asked as they stepped out into the tepid air. His mom looked flustered, her cheeks pink and her brows furrowed. It was weird – Richie had very rarely seen his mom behave in such a way or seem to be in such a state. “Mom?”

“She’s asking them to leave the store, Richie. We’re going to go to the other store.” She responded curtly as she loaded their few groceries into the trunk, and Richie scrambled to make sense of any of it.

“Why? What? They were just shopping for groceries, ma. Why do they need to leave the store? Are they criminals? Should we call the police? You hate the other store, why can’t we just shop here?” Richie asked, his tone whiny. His stomach felt like it was lined with rocks as his mom opened the passenger door for him, ushering him into the car. Richie stood in place, waiting for answers.

“Richie, get in the car. We’re leaving.” His mom said, her tone firm and unwavering. Richie didn’t move a muscle, tilting his chin up a little in defiance.

“Tell me what’s going on, mom.”

“Richard Wentworth Tozier, you get in the car _right now_ or you are grounded for the whole of this summer, do you hear me?”

Richie’s eyes widened as his mom raised her voice, nearly yelling at him right there in the carpark. As much as Richie pushed her buttons, she rarely ever yelled at him. She wasn’t the type to lose her temper. And he wasn’t about to risk the chance of being grounded for the summer when Eddie had just arrived. So, he got in the car without another defiant word, closing the door firmly and fumbling with his seatbelt. His mom got into the driver’s seat and started the engine, pulling out from the car park and starting down the street towards the other store, twenty-or-so minutes away. The silence in the car was thick and heavy as Richie avoided looking at his mother, staring out the window and fiddling with a hole in the hem of his t-shirt. It was only after five or so minutes passed before his mom spoke again, so suddenly that it caused Richie to jolt in place.

“I’m sorry, Richie. I didn’t mean to get angry at you back there.” She said, and Richie chanced a look at her, seeing the way she was flexing her grip on the steering wheel.

“It’s okay, mom.” Richie responded, though it kinda wasn’t really that okay, and he felt a little bit like he was going to start crying.

“No, it’s not okay. You were curious and I wasn’t answering your questions.” His mother exhaled through her nose, as if she was preparing herself to present a big project in front of the class. But the class was Richie, so it wasn’t like he was marking her on anything. “Those men were not dangerous criminals. The store clerk was asking them to leave because they were being… inappropriate in a family-friendly establishment. And that sort of behaviour isn’t acceptable in a place where the public can see it.”

Richie went back to looking out the window, his brows furrowed as his mom’s words registered slowly in his head. Word by word, sentence by sentence, sinking in and in and in.

“What do you mean? They were just shopping for groceries, mom. They weren’t doing anything bad.” Richie responded, and his chest felt like it was half filled with sand. Shallow, like he couldn’t take any full breaths; only gasps of air, like Eddie when he was having an asthma attack. Was he having an asthma attack?

“No, Richie. They were…” She let out a big sigh, almost like she was irritated and bothered by it all, and Richie clenched his hand up so tight he felt his muscles cramp up. “Those men were homosexuals. Men who like men in the way that a man loves a woman. It’s wrong. It’s a sin, and sinful behaviour should not be forced into the public like that. It’s perverted, and I wish… I wish you wouldn’t have had to see that. It makes me sick. Absolutely sick to my stomach. People like that need to find God, I can only pray for them that they will get over their sickness.”

Richie felt like he was dying. He didn’t know why, but every word felt like another punch to his abdomen, his nails digging deep into his palms. His knuckles were white, his mouth dry. He didn’t understand. Why was it wrong? What made it so wrong? Why were those men not allowed to shop in the grocery store?

“So, being homosexual is… is a sin? Like, the go-to-hell sort of sin? If they’re sick, can’t we help them?” Richie asked, feeling a cold sort of panic creep up his spine and into every nerve in his body. His stomach churned and rolled, bile rising within his throat.

“Yes. Homosexuality is a go-to-hell sin. And there’s nothing we can do to help them, unless they want to be helped. Unless they choose another path, the path chosen for them by God, there is nothing we can do.”

“Momma, pull over please,”

Richie threw up along the side of the road.

*

Richie tried not to think about what happened at the grocery store. He tried to force himself to forget what his mom had said. Whenever he did think about it, he would get knots in his stomach. Knots so tight they made him feel like they were so close to snapping and making his insides explode from the inside out. But no matter how much Richie tried to stop thinking about it, he couldn’t. He found himself looking for signs of it everywhere – he would stare at people, waiting for a subtle sign that there were more people like that out there. He didn’t know why he cared so much, why he couldn’t help but obsess over it. He would watch movies and shows on the television, hoping to see a man looking at a man in the same way he had seen in real life. But there was nothing. It remained elusive, almost like an impossibility he had dreamt up. He tried to talk about it more with his mom, who refused to talk about sinful behaviour like that under her roof. His dad was just awkward about it.

“Dad, do you know anyone who’s gay?” Richie had asked as he hung around the backyard, watching his father try to fix the shed that had been damaged by some strong winds a few months back.

“What? Gay? Why’re you asking that, Rich?” He frowned, straightening up and placing his hands on his hips. “Do you know someone who’s gay? At school?”

“No! No. No way. No one’s gay. I’m just curious. Like… do you know anyone?” Richie shoved his hands into his pockets, and his father returned to his job, picking up a hammer and trying to locate the right nails he needed.

“I knew one guy growing up. He lived outside of town. I mean, everyone thought he was gay. He didn’t come into town much. People weren’t kind to those types in those parts.” Wentworth lined a nail up on a piece of scrap wood, squinting at it. Richie wondered why he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

“What happened to him?” Richie asked, and Wentworth pulled away from his aim, looking over at his son. He was quiet for a moment, his expression seemingly perplexed as he dug through memories older than Richie was.

“You know, Richie? I don’t know. There were rumours about him. But I think he just… died. Alone, in that house. Sad, but not entirely unexpected. When you choose that life, you choose the consequences just as well.”

Something wasn’t sitting right with Richie. Deep, deep in his soul. It felt like a toxic sickness he couldn’t get out. Like one day, he would have just dissolved into his mattress, body full of acid. Nothing except the black sludge that had begun to fill every cavity inside of him.

*

The next time Richie saw Eddie, which was the first time they had the opportunity to hang out since he had initially arrived in Derry, it was on the day Richie was taking Eddie to the clubhouse. The clubhouse was a pretty new thing – Ben was freakishly into architecture and building things, and the group of them had all pitched in for a few weekends to put together an official hang-out spot. It was fucking cool, in Richie’s opinion; they were all sworn to absolute secrecy, so there was no way any parents or Bowers-related-individuals could come and crash their party. Maybe party was a bit of a grandiose term. Regardless, Richie was drafted with the task of bringing Eddie to the newly established clubhouse for that afternoon, as he was the one who lived closest and Eddie still was yet to meet the newest additions to the group. Richie was pretty excited for that day in particular, as he had swiped something from the local grocery store (yes, _that grocery store_ ) that he had tucked away in his backpack. It was sort of retaliation – Richie wouldn’t admit it, but it was his way of saying ­ _fuck you_ to the store for not letting two people (no matter how ‘sick’ they were) do their goddamn groceries in peace. Richie felt like that was a pretty punk reason to excuse his borderline kleptomaniac tendencies.

It was a pleasant day as Richie stepped out onto the front porch, backpack heavy on one shoulder. He had showered that morning, and even remembered to use deodorant (he was pretty bad at that). Donned in a classic rainbow tie-dye tshirt and some pretty cool purple nylon shorts (if he did say so himself), Richie felt pretty alright. He was adamant that today was going to be fun. That he wouldn’t let himself get caught in thought cycles, remembering details and situations that he tried to forget. Despite this optimism, Richie’s stomach was doing flips as he walked down the street and towards Mrs. S’ place. He took his time, letting every footfall crunch the rocks beneath the soles of his feet, kicking every large rock into the gutter. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his shorts. It suddenly felt a whole lot hotter now than it had been when he had initially stepped out. Maybe he had a fever? He couldn’t bail though. Everybody was waiting for him at the clubhouse, and for Eddie, and he had promised them that he had something cool to show them. Going home now would probably mean Stan would kick his ass for wasting everyone’s time. So, Richie sucked it up, skipping the two steps up the porch, and knocked rhythmically on the front door.

He didn’t have to wait long before Eddie opened it, saying a rushed goodbye to his grandma as he closed the door behind him. The first hang out of the summer of 1988; Richie told himself that it wasn’t that much of a big deal, although it felt like it. He had to force himself not to stare at Eddie, who had already launched into discussing how much he had missed hanging out with everyone in Derry and how pumped he was for the next few months. Richie tried to listen, he really did, as they walked down the driveway and down the pavement towards their destination. But it was hard – his brain felt like it was buzzing, like it was sending currents shooting underneath his skin. Eddie looked good. He always looked good, Richie reminded himself. He tried to force himself not to notice nor care, but before he could help himself he had already mentally catalogued his chosen outfit for the day. A baby-yellow polo shirt tucked into some short blue denim shorts, a brown belt looped around his tiny waist. He was wearing mid-calf socks and those expensive Converse shoes Richie had been begging his mom to buy for him for months now. Of course, he had his fannypack too – clinched around him, an anchor to keep him weighed down from the constant flood of anxieties. Richie’s whole body felt dazed.

“Hello? Earth to Richie? Are you even listening to me, you fucking space case?” Eddie’s voice pierced through Richie’s static-y thoughts, and Richie felt a surge of panic squeeze and constrict around his organs. Fuck. Fuck. Come on, Richie, knock it off.

“Fuck _off_ , I was listening to your _mom_ all night, cut me some slack.” Richie retorted sharply, and Eddie let out a flustered noise, the apples of his cheeks and tips of his ears going pink. Richie forced his eyes forward, on the cracks on the road, on anything except Eddie and a blush he wanted to see over and over.

“My—my mom? _Fuck you_ , asshole. That’s fucking gross.” Eddie muttered sharply, and Richie laughed, even when Eddie shoved him in the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble over his own feet.

*

Richie had purposefully not told Eddie a thing about the clubhouse. Primarily because something told him that Eddie would not appreciate the concept of hanging out in a space assembled by a bunch of preteens out of materials they had scavenged (for the most part). He could practically conjure Eddie’s response up in his head – a high-pitched jumble of words as he would categorically list all possible ways that they could get seriously ill or injured, or even die. So, Richie left it as a surprise until the very moment he led Eddie to the entrance. The clubhouse itself had originally been an old abandoned shed built against a small cliff-face that had been significantly burnt and damaged for as long as Richie could remember. Ben had utilised the building foundations and few remaining walls in his baking-paper and pencil-led plans, and after weeks and hours of collecting up the right materials and tools, they had made a somewhat stable, enclosed structure. Eddie, however, was unconvinced.

“What the _fuck_ is that?” He blurted out as they stood at the entrance. They hadn’t exactly… succeeded in building a door. The ‘doorway’ was a squarish hole in the top of the clubhouse that would only properly close using a poorly built hatch, a ladder hastily secured and propped up against it. Richie had only fallen from it once or twice, and only once had it been enough to draw blood or bruise.

“The clubhouse, genius. C’mon everyone’s already inside.” Richie shrugged, stepping ahead of Eddie and lifting the hatch, swinging it to the side and stepping down the first rung of the ladder. Eddie was rooted in place, arms crossed over his chest.

“A clubhouse? No way, did you build this yourself? It looks more like a descent into hell, no thank you very much. That’s not even secure! Not to mention that ladder looks like it’s at least twenty years old, and probably beginning to rot. _All_ of this is probably beginning to rot. It could crash in on all of us, at any minute, and we could all die under the debris. Or someone could fall and break all their bones in their body, paralysing them for life. Do you want to be a paraplegic? You can’t do anything for yourself. Someone else has to clean up your piss and shit, do you want that? And there’s probably a whole fucktonne of tetanus just waiting to absolute fucking wreck our immune systems. My mom knew someone with tetanus, and their fucking arm rotted away completely and fell off. Just fell off! Gangrene, dude. I don’t want to get gangrene—”

“Richie? Did you bring along goddamn _Trapper John, M.D._ with you?” Beverly’s mess of curls appeared at the base of the ladder, and Eddie stopped mid-tirade. “Oh, bummer. Definitely not Trapper John. Hurry up, you’re letting all the cold air in. You too, stranger.”

*

“W-where did you get that Richie?” Bill stammered what everybody else was thinking, sitting in a wonky circle on the floor of the clubhouse. The afternoon sunlight streaming through gaps in the hastily patched together wood and metal. Richie’s backpack sat at his feet in front of him, pulled wide open as he brandished his illegal bounty. The group had fallen into dead silence as he had pulled out the bottle of stolen whiskey, placing it firmly onto the dirt floor for all to see. Richie felt a surge of pride at the shock and awe on the faces of his companions, the fact that he had managed to obtain something so unthinkably forbidden.

“I took it.” He responded with a puff of his chest, to which Stan snorted.

“You took it? So, you stole it. So not only did you steal something, you stole a bottle of whiskey? That’s double illegal. You could go to jail.” Stan shot him a withering glare, to which Richie exaggeratedly rolled his eyes behind his signature thick frames.

“He’s not going to jail ‘cause he didn’t get caught, Stan. It’s fine.” Beverly leaned forward, grabbing the bottle and holding it up to the light, squinting into the amber liquid. She swirled it around in her grip, watching the way it moved behind it’s glass confines.

“We probably shouldn’t have that in here. I don’t want to get in trouble if we get caught—” Ben spoke up, to which Mike agreed, looking at the bottle of whiskey as if it was going to gain sentience and come after him.

“H-he w-won’t get caught. He didn’t get caught.” Bill reiterated Beverly’s initial sentiment, to which Beverly passed the bottle over to Stan for his chance at close-up observation. He brought the label of the bottle right up to his eyes, reading the tiny fine-print scrawl. Richie shrugged, pulling a knee up to his chest nonchalantly. He chanced a look at Eddie, who was strangely quiet, a deep frown etched into his features.

“No one’s gonna get into trouble unless someone snitches. Where did you get it from, Rich?” Beverly extended her legs, getting comfortable in place. Richie saw Ben’s gaze flicker towards her before hastily shifting towards something, nothing in particular; but he didn’t say anything. He didn’t want people to start pointing out where people’s eyes went because Richie would have a whole lot of explaining to do.

“The grocer. I was thinking we could try it.” Richie reached forward, snatching it from Stan’s hands and shaking the bottle. He had no idea if he needed to shake the bottle or not, but he wanted to seem like he knew what he was doing. Even if he had never tasted any kind of alcohol in his life. “Like, obviously it’s good. People drink it all the time, right? So, it’s good. We can get _drunk_.” Richie leaned forward for emphasis, working to screw the lid off and break the seal. He lifted it to his nose as he opened it, hit with a pungent odour that made him wrinkle up his nose in distaste. “Oh man, that smells fucking rancid.”

“We probably shouldn’t—” Mike, always the voice of reason, began to protest. He was always so calm and collected and mature; a polar opposite to Richie, who, with no regard nor concern, took a large, dramatic swig.

It tasted horrible, but Richie wasn’t about to let that show. No, adults drank alcohol. It was sophisticated and mature to drink alcohol, and he wasn’t about to show how childish and immature he was – not in front of his friends. Not in front of _Eddie_ , who was looking at him like a deer in the headlights. There was a silence, a collective held breath as they all waited. For what, who knew? For Richie to drop dead, or for the police to burst through the ceiling, or for their parents to climb down the ladder and whack them all around the back of their heads. But that didn’t happen. Nothing happened. Richie felt no different, with the exception of the foul taste in his mouth and a new swell in his ego and confidence.

“Well?” Stan was the first to speak, and Richie shrugged noncommittally as he took another exaggerated sip. It tasted like goddamn cleaning product.

“It’s fine, I guess. I don’t really get the big deal.” Richie played it off as coolly as he could. Bev leaned forward towards him, grabbing the bottle from his grip.

“Lemme try it, slim-jim!” She grinned, a glint in her eyes that only complimented her fiery aura. Beverly was pretty – Richie knew that. He knew she was beautiful, and funny, and part of him wanted to be attracted to her. To want to be her boyfriend and hold her hand, to kiss her. He had tried to force himself to feel that way, but he couldn’t. No matter what he did, he couldn’t find himself seeing her as anything else than a close friend. Someone he admired, someone he cared for; but anything else made him feel weird and icky in his stomach.

Beverly was the next to take a drink, and she pulled away abruptly, smacking her lips with a clear look of distaste.

“Eugh, Rich. That tastes awful. Like, floor polish or something. Beer tastes better than that.” She commented, and her enthusiasm seemed to gain momentum as the bottle returned to Stan’s hands, and he sniffed at it, recoiling instantly.

“You’ve had _beer before_?” Ben gasped, looking at Beverly with a look of shock and horror. She snorted, waving a hand dismissively. Beverly was cool – probably as cool as Richie was, in comparison with the rest of the group. Beverly didn’t care what anybody thought. She just did whatever she wanted to, and Richie loved that about her because he was the same.

“This is a bad idea, guys. Like, really, not a good idea. Underage drinking is so illegal, and there’s a _reason_ for that you know, like—it can turn your brain to mush or something, and it’ll leak out your ears and nose—” Eddie protested, his voice tense with clear anxiety. He was fidgeting with his fingernails, picking, picking, picking at them, bringing them up to his teeth and biting down. He couldn’t sit still, his leg jiggling in place as if he was about to lift off and exit the atmosphere at any second. Stan didn’t heed Eddie’s cryptic warning, wiping the top of the bottle off with his sleeve before he took a tiny, tiny sip.

“Oh, _gross_. This isn’t even worth it. What the fuck, why do adults even want to drink this?” Stan gagged, wiping his mouth furiously with the back of his hand.

“I don’t think that happens, Eddie. A l-lot of people drink all the t-t-time. And their brains are still in their heads.” Bill reassured, reaching for the bottle from Stan’s grip to inspect it for himself. “I mean… R-Richie is fine. And B-Beverly has had beer b-before. And she’s fine.” He reasoned, and Eddie, who was sitting next to him, looked at the bottle as if it were the devil incarnate.

“Eddie. Chill. Heaps of kids do this.” Richie extended his leg, nudging Eddie in the calf with the toe of his shoe. Eddie looked at him, clearly unsure as his uncertainty was painted across his face, as true as day. “I think everyone should at least take a sip. I nearly got caught for this, y’know. I nearly went to jail just so I could get us this whiskey. At least try it.” Richie pushed, to which Beverly hummed in agreement. Bill followed the Stan route and took a small sip from the bottle, clicking his tongue as he put the glass bottle on the ground.

“T-there. Tried it.” He concluded, wiping his hands on his pants decisively.

“See? Thank you, Billy-Willy. I appreciate it, the recognition of my plight. Plus, we’re all gonna end up drinking anyway, at some point. So we just as well try it now, right?” Richie continued, and Mike shrugged and shook his head.

“I’m good, thank you.” He sat back against a wooden support beam, continuing to quietly watch the unfolding of what was going on around him. Richie knew that he wouldn’t be able to sway Mike – he was way too steely in his resolve, and way too calm and collected. But Ben and Eddie were a little less sure of themselves – significantly less, and both seemed to be teetering in their decisiveness.

“Benny-boy? Eds-Spagheds? Do you wanna poop the party like Mikey-Wikey here has?” Richie pouted, and Eddie scowled, crossing his arms over his chest defensively. “Or do I have to take the bottle with me when I decide to wine and dine your mom, Eddie?”

“Shut _up_. My mom doesn’t even drink whiskey, dickhead. She drinks liqueur or bourbon, because she has taste and doesn’t steal her alcohol from the grocer like a low-grade criminal. You fucking klepto.” Eddie snapped, and Richie grinned, his chest hot with the excitement of getting a reaction – any reaction – out of the smaller boy. He kicked his calf again, and Eddie slapped his leg through his pants.

“Ohoho, thanks for the tip, Eddie my love. I know exactly what I gotta get her so I can _get her_ —”

“Beep beep, Richie.” Stan interrupted abruptly, before he stood up and stepped toward the whiskey, picking it up from where it sat abandoned – yet hailed as a symbol of the forbidden fruit of adulthood. “Is anyone else going to drink this? Ben? Eddie?”

Ben looked towards Beverly, who was encouragingly poking his knee and raising her eyebrows. He visibly swallowed, his face flushed as he muttered a soft ‘yeah, I guess so’, and reached for the bottle from Stan. He stuck a finger into the bottleneck, the liquor splashing onto his skin. He licked a drop from his finger, hastily shoving it back into Stan’s awaiting hands. Beverly let out a cheer, grabbing Ben’s shoulders and giving him a congratulatory shake. Ben smiled his Ben-smile, reserved and bashful, especially around Beverly. Richie was pretty sure Ben liked Beverly in the way Richie wanted to like Beverly – and that made him feel jealous, the hot sort of jealous that ignited deep in his belly and made him frustrated and angry.

“C’mon Eds. You don’t wanna be the Mike of the group.” Richie said, in all seriousness.

“Hey—” Mike protested with a laugh because he knew Richie and he knew how to take a joke. Eddie looked at Richie sourly as Stan stood in front of him, holding the glass bottle by the neck. It almost looked like some weird summoning circle. Richie wanted Eddie to drink it too – he wanted to be the first one who offered Eddie a drink. He wanted Eddie to think he was cool and rebellious and suave. He wanted Eddie to have to remember him – even if he forgot all the summers, he wouldn’t ever forget his first real drink.

“I don’t know—” Eddie reached out with a shaky hand, taking the bottle from Stan and reading over the ingredients, as if he would be able to understand which ingredient meant what. Richie doubted he understood the interactive effects of every ingredient known to man – he suspected that, like the way he bit his nails and spouted medical knowledge ranging from egregiously incorrect to impressively accurate facts, it was just one of those things he did. 

“It’s not that bad, E-Eddie. But you d-don’t have to.” Bill reassured him, reaching over to pat him square on the back. Eddie pursed his lips, and Richie’s heart, for some reason, felt like it was pushing right up against his ribcage.

“It’s okay if you don’t want to, Eddie, honey. We won’t make fun of you or anything.” Beverly reassured, in her soft, warm tone that was always smooth as honey. Richie caught Ben looking at her again, when he no doubt thought the attention was on Eddie. Richie clenched his molars, he clenched his jaw, hard enough to send pain shooting up into his temples.

“If you don’t want to do it, don’t. Give it back then.” Richie snapped finally, growing quickly tired of the uncertainty and hesitancy and the way Ben could just look at Beverly and no one ever thought it was weird or ever commented on it and _that was just fucking unfair. It was all so unfair._ Richie stood up and marched over to Eddie to retrieve his goods, and Eddie recoiled away, shielding the bottle with his body. “Give it, Eds.”

“No!” Eddie insisted stubbornly, glaring daggers at Richie, who felt his frustration only grow. He reached over Eddie’s body, trying to pry the bottle from his grip.

“Give it back, dude. Fuck, if you’re too pussy to drink it, let me have my shit back—It’s mine—” Richie growled, and Eddie shoved him hard in the sternum, kicking him with his leg as he squirmed away. He spilt whiskey on the ground. “Don’t _fucking spill it_!”

“Get the fuck away from me, dude, it isn’t even yours! You stole it!” Eddie responded, curling even more around the bottle as if he was hellbent on protecting it – or keeping it from Richie. Either or, really.

“It’s mine! Stop being a bitch-baby and give me back my shit—”

Eddie interrupted Richie not in words, but in action – lifting the rim of the bottle to his lip and taking a long drink. A longer drink than Richie had, than anyone had, glaring at Richie right in the eye as if to prove a point.

Richie’s heart stopped in that moment, his breath catching in his lungs as he fell back onto his ass into the dirt, his hand right into the muddy mess of spilt whiskey. Though he didn’t care. His head felt hot and foggy, and his armpits were sweating buckets. Eddie had had that look on his face – the look of _watch me_ , of determination, the one that he wore whenever he was determined to prove someone wrong. And by god, had he proved someone wrong. He had proved Richie wrong, slamming the glass bottle down beside him.

“There. _Fuck you_ , grot.” His voice was rough from the alcohol, the strength of his closing statement only hindered by Eddie gagging from the taste. Everyone was laughing, and Richie didn’t even care that it was probably at him, as he sat in the middle of the group in front of a triumphant looking Eddie. He cared more about the clashing of emotion and experience inside of him – the frustration that seemed to colour all of his days now, that only got more and more intense. The anger that he packed deep inside of him, compartmentalised into neat little nooks and crannies until he could swallow it down. The bile in his throat that made his mouth taste acidic, the sheen of sweat that coincided with the knot of nerves in his stomach. He wanted to do so much, all the time. He wanted to shove Ben to the ground, to point out his weird glances and stares and make him feel _bad_ , just as Richie always did. He wanted to pinch Eddie’s cheek or arm hard enough to bruise, because he made him feel so weird and mixed up that it scared him and irritated him all at once.

He wiped the mud on his nylon shorts, uncaring that it may stain, as he relinquished possession of his stolen acquisition, and scooted back to where he had previously been perched.

The whiskey was later displayed like a metaphorical trophy within the clubhouse – atop a dilapidated shelf they had dragged in from the curb outside a house. It soon lost its novelty, the experience brought up a few times in conversation, but the centrepiece fading into the background of their surroundings. No one really noticed when Richie would sometimes, just for the hell of it, take a sip or two. And no one really noticed when the amber liquid was gone completely – and when they did, they all figured that they had drank more on that day than they had initially thought. Or that Eddie had ended up spilling it all into the dirt. And Richie never corrected them. Because the taste of whiskey, as horrible as it was, was nowhere near as bad as the acidic taste of self-hatred that had begun to saturate the inside of Richie Tozier’s mouth. 


	7. Surfer Rosa; 1988

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Richie knew a lot. He knew that without Buddy Holly, there would be no Beatles. He knew that modern ventriloquism started in nightclubs and originated as a religious practice. He knew that rabbits could not puke, the oldest ‘your mom’ joke was found on a 3,500-year-old Babylonian tablet, and that shellac was made from insect poop. And he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was most certainly going to hell.

Eddie Kaspbrak had never visited a friend’s house. This was a fact – a fact Richie had learned from Eddie one day as they spent a lazy afternoon sitting in the front of the laundromat, listening to _Surfer Rosa_ by _the Pixies_ on Richie’s new Walkman. While Richie was far from popular, and that meant he had only been to a few friend’s houses, it was a fact that caught him by surprise. They were 12 and yet Eddie hadn’t ever stepped foot into someone else’s place that wasn’t directly related to him. The very thought of a _sleep over_ , according to Eddie, was sacrilege to his mother. Just another way for her poor, beloved, baby Eddie to get sick. Just another rule to keep him firmly coiled into her web, tightening until he could barely breathe, let alone move. A sweet, soft form of rebellion.

And so, Eddie started visiting Richie’s house.

He wasn’t particularly comfortable with the whole sleep over thing just yet, which was perfectly okay with Richie – he wasn’t quite sure how he felt about Eddie staying the night anyway. Richie had had many sleep overs, sure. But it was different with Eddie. He hadn’t ever spent a whole 24 hours with him, and he was certain that within that 24 hours, he would do something that would result in Eddie choosing to never talk to him again. So, that would have to wait for now. But Eddie coming over for the day was something they were both particularly enthusiastic about; so, they planned for it to happen the very next day.

Richie had told his family that Eddie was coming over dinner that night, stressing the utmost importance in the fact that everyone had to act normal and that Eddie had never done this before – so they had to not be, in Richie’s words, _‘weirdos’_ that would scare Eddie away and possibly ruin the prospect of the boy ever visiting someone’s house ever again. Realistically, he knew he was probably the biggest weirdo in his family. His father was surely a close runner up, considering he was just a calmer version of Richie. Bad jokes, armada of voices, and all. He had briefed his mother militantly on all Eddie’s numerous allergies and intolerances, and he had even made a valiant attempt at cleaning up his room. And while it was far from clean and organised, it was significantly better than it had been in months (much to his mother’s delight).

And as Richie lay in bed, staring at his ceiling like he had countless nights before, he found himself unable to sleep. His mind ran through the limitless amounts of possibilities that the next day held. The _what-ifs_ that Richie had become so used to that it felt second nature to second-guess his every waking moment. The endless overthinking that had him feeling as if he was trapped in a helpless cycle. While it seemed so simple during the day, it had morphed and disfigured itself into something entirely more complex under the guise of the night, when Richie was left alone, listening to the sound of his breathing and his heart against his ribcage. Maybe he should have said no. Maybe he shouldn’t have invited Eddie over at all. Maybe he shouldn’t have even let himself hang out with Eddie at all this summer or introduced him to the rest of the gang. Maybe he should have just let the friendship die off into nothing; left it bittersweet in the back of Richie’s head. For him to return to on occasion, the details of which faded and slipped through his grasp like smoke. Maybe he should have let Eddie fade out completely until he was nothing but a fleeting thought, a warm feeling. Maybe he should have – but he knew he couldn’t turn back time, and he knew that even if he should have, he didn’t think he _could have_. Something about Eddie had drawn him in since the very beginning. And even if that something had changed and distorted as Richie himself had over time, that magnetism was still there. That want to hold on. To know more. To be close. Even if Richie’s brain screamed at him that he just had to _let go_ , that getting too close was the worst thing he could ever choose to do. For both himself and Eddie. He couldn’t take any of it back. And he couldn’t cancel on Eddie. This was a big deal. Richie didn’t know why, specifically. But he knew it was a big deal for Eddie, and he didn’t want to fuck that up. He didn’t want to fuck any of this up. He _desperately_ didn’t want to fuck this up.

And for the most part, he didn’t.

Eddie came over that day. And the day afterwards – and soon enough, Eddie was knocking on Richie’s door nearly as often as Richie was knocking at his. Richie’s parents, particularly his mother, instantly had a fondness for the short, mild-mannered boy. As was characteristic of Eddie, he had been exceedingly tense and anxious at first. He had been terrified of the idea of Richie’s parents or sister not liking him, which Richie thought to be a bit strange because he honestly could give less of a fuck if any of his parents liked him or not (and he knew for a fact a few of them were far from his biggest fans). He always took his shoes off at the door, always offered to help with any task someone was doing that he figured he could assist with. Things Richie had never even considered, Eddie did within a heartbeat. And soon enough, Richie’s parents even began to ask if Eddie would be coming back the next day.

Eddie had refused to eat anything the first time he visited, but soon warmed up to the idea as Maggie would reiterate every ingredient she used for his meal. Maggie would often prepare a separate plate of snacks for Eddie, and eventually even separate lunches for him once Eddie spent the entire day there. Richie had even found a few cookbooks on her counter where she had dog-eared recipes specifically for Eddie; replacing ingredients with Eddie-friendly ones and writing her own notes in her neat cursive. Maggie and Eddie got along like a ‘house on fire’ (as Wentworth had described it one night). Richie guessed that it had something to do with the fact that Maggie knew a lot about Eddie from Mrs S. She was a good mother, Richie knew, and she had a lot of love to go around. And she loved Eddie, as soon as he set foot in her front door, mothering him as if he was her own. Richie thought that maybe that would freak Eddie out – but instead, Eddie seemed to flourish from it. Eddie would tell Richie how lucky he was to have a mother like Maggie, and a father like Wentworth. That they were amazing parents, and so nice, and so loving. And Richie knew he was lucky – because he had _both parents_ while Eddie only had one, and his mom wasn’t a fucking gorgon like Sonia was. But he didn’t tell Eddie that even though they were good parents that he knew there was a part of himself that they would never be able to love. And that he felt like an imposter in his own home. Someone who had barged into a home, sat at a table, slept in a bed within a home he never belonged to; that he didn’t _deserve_ any of it.

The new addition of Richie’s house to Eddie’s internalised list of ‘safe environments’ presented both a blessing and a curse. Richie saw Eddie a whole lot more than he had ever before, which he hadn’t even considered to be possible. And it was cool because they got to hang out all the time, and they were just as in sync as ever – if anything, their friendship only grew closer. Sometimes, Eddie could just tell what Richie was thinking without him even saying it. Richie had always wanted a friend like that. A best friend like the ones in the movies, where they could do everything with one another and never grow tired of the other’s company. A best friend that was accepted into his family without a problem. Richie’s mom even encouraged Richie to hang out with Eddie, as he was ‘such a sweet boy’ who could ‘be a good influence on him’. And part of Richie thought that it was awesome to finally connect with someone on such a level – but another part of him resented the fact that it was Eddie.

Richie had initially been optimistic that those conflicting feelings he had felt for such a long time that centred around his friend would melt away. That they were fostered by idealisation that had accumulated over their time apart. That this was just new to him, excitement that would melt away once they fell into step like they always did. But that didn’t happen. Those feelings just got stronger, sometimes feeling as if they were all-consuming of him; and while Richie knew he ought not to blame Eddie for any of it (because it really wasn’t his fault), he found himself doing exactly that. He found himself feeling the familiar stabbing of cold anxiety in his intestine quite often at the most random times. Other times, he would feel the sickening butterflies, the light-headedness, the closing of his throat, the dryness of his mouth, the clamminess of his palms. Richie was convinced he was sick.

No, he _knew_ he was sick. He knew it very well, even if he tried to lie to himself. Especially when he would lie to himself.

It occurred to him slowly but clicked into place in an instant. An understanding and a realisation that had begun festering in his brain for so long that it had begun to make it’s home there; built with bricks made of an internalised self-loathing that sometimes felt like it was so heavy Richie could barely inhale. It was like a weird, fucked up puzzle from the universe that was being given to Richie in fragments. Piece by piece. And as the picture became clearer, the details less murky and more defined, Richie began to feel as if his life was over before it had truly begun. That everything he had hoped for was instantly torn from his grasp. That the person he was, the person everyone knew, the person he knew, was simply a puppet made out of flimsy construction paper – that he could fall apart at any moment to reveal the sickness bubbling underneath.

Richie knew a lot. He knew that without Buddy Holly, there would be no Beatles. He knew that modern ventriloquism started in nightclubs and originated as a religious practice. He knew that rabbits could not puke, the oldest ‘your mom’ joke was found on a 3,500-year-old Babylonian tablet, and that shellac was made from insect poop. And he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that he was most certainly going to hell.

That understanding ate away at Richie. It sat like one of the summer cicadas, chirping in his ear. Reminders that he would try to quell with whatever distraction he could manage. But it always came back.

When he was with his family on the sofa, watching a movie.

_You’re going to hell._

When he went to the store with his mom.

_You’re sick, and everyone’s going to find out_.

When he would pester his sister for the sole purpose of annoying her.

_There’s something wrong with you._

And it was worst around Eddie. Because it was _Eddie_. Because _it_ was Eddie. Richie would feel the best with Eddie, and that would be quickly followed by a whirlwind in his brain that felt like every organ had been taken out of his body and haphazardly shoved back into place.

He would laugh with Eddie.

_What if he knew about what you truly are?_

He would listen to his favourite songs with Eddie, talk about their favourite movies.

_He’s going to hate you. He’s going to know you’re a creep._

And sometimes Richie found himself doing things he had never done before. Taking chances that were so _stupid_ but he couldn’t help it. Despite how much he hated himself, and the realisation of who and _what_ he was, it was as if he was possessed. And maybe he was (he hoped he was because that meant he could be cured from this).

On hot days, Richie would sometimes look at Eddie. Eddie wore shorts a whole lot, and Richie would look at his legs. At his thighs, all the way up to where they disappeared in his shorts.

_What is wrong with you?_

Richie would watch Eddie when he wasn’t paying attention – he’d watch the way he would sometimes mouth the words to himself as he read comics, would watch the way his chest rose and fall as he would calmly breathe. He’d watch the way his hair fell onto his forehead, commit every detail he could of Eddie into his brain so he could visualise him, clear as day, behind his eyelids. The smooth, milky column of his neck; the mole he had on the junction between his neck and his shoulder; his long, dark eyelashes; his perfectly pink lips.

_Stop staring. Stop staring. Everybody is going to know. You’re going to die alone like that old man. People like you always end up alone_.

It was the worst one day at the quarry. It really, truly was. It was the worst experience of Richie’s life, up until that point.

It had been a hot day. Stiflingly hot. The gang of them had decided to meet at the quarry to swim and mill about in the overbearing weather. And that was fine because they’d done it a million times. But Eddie was there. And he had peeled off the clothes that stuck to his body with sweat as they all had, as they _always did_ , and folded them neatly on the designated clothing boulder. And Richie was already in the water, up to his chin, and he thought that Eddie was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. His whole body felt like it had been wrung out of air, his stomach swooping and his heart beating and thudding so loud he could barely hear, and he felt so hot all over he had to duck beneath the water. He tried to stay away from Eddie as much as he could that day – but he ended up going home early with a yelled excuse of a stomach bug, and he ended up crying so hard in the bathroom that he made himself vomit over the ledge of the bathtub.

Richie had never been attracted to any of the girls in his class. He knew Stan and Bill had; they had talked about it since they were 10 years old. The prettiest girls in their year level that they wanted to hold hands with, and later when they were older, the same girls were the ones they wanted to kiss. And Ben had a crush on Beverly that was so clear to Richie it made him sick with envy, envy strong enough that he was surprised it had not turned his skin green. And he had thought that surely one day, he would find a girl like that. That it was simply the fact that the girls in Derry were just not his type. That they were pretty to look at, but that was it. Every movie Richie had watched, every book he had read, there was a man and a woman that would fall in love and there was a happily ever after sure to follow. But there wasn’t ever going to be a happily ever after for Richie, because he wanted to hold hands with a boy. He wanted to kiss Eddie.

He had read every book he could on puberty and sexual development. Page after page, absorbing knowledge as to what was going to happen to him and his body. And he knew it, almost like a step-by-step guide to his own bodily function. And it had been sort of weirdly cool in the beginning before it took a sharp turn into the worst. He had thought that he would just be like everybody else. That his first crush wouldn’t be on the hypochondriac, weird kid down the road who was convinced he was going to get malaria from a single mosquito bite. There were no books on what to do in that situation. No guide, no ‘101 facts on how to deal with the fact that you’re most probably gay’. The books would describe this period in Richie’s life to be one full of ‘discovery’ and ‘wonder’, that they were ‘utterly amazing’ and ‘beautiful’. Richie didn’t understand what was so great about any of it. He wanted to go back to how things were when he was a kid. When his body wasn’t changing rapidly, and he wasn’t feeling these feelings that were like a death-sentence branded onto his forehead.

That day at the quarry was the first day Richie had ever had an erection. And it mortified him – he felt like his body was betraying him. Sure, he had popped random boners here and there as soon as his asshole pituitary gland decided to kick into gear. And the books had all covered that part, so he was expecting it. But there was something deeply humiliating in the fact that that was the first time an actual person had aroused him in _that way_ (which was completely freaky and was the reason he ended up vomiting, which had been really fucking gross and had his mom convinced he had a stomach bug). His parents had insisted that being gay was a _choice_. And Richie was making the choice over and over again to not be this way, and yet it didn’t make a difference. His feelings didn’t change, and instead, he got a boner over his best friend going for a well-needed swim.

After the vomiting incident, Maggie insisted that Richie stay home for a day and abstain from contact from the entirety of the outside world until his stomach bug passed. And honestly, he was more than okay with that. He was more than okay to never step a foot into the outside world again.

*

It was a whole three days after the quarry event before Richie felt anywhere near comfortable enough to see Eddie again. Maybe he had milked the whole stomach bug thing a little, but the thought of leaving his room was enough to make him feel faint with nerves – let alone the thought of seeing Eddie. That made him feel like he was going to be sick all over himself again. And if he vomited all over himself in front of his friend, he was pretty sure Eddie would have a heart attack and die on the spot. After three days, Richie knew he couldn’t milk it anymore. He didn’t have a fever, and his mom had been doting on him the entire time for an imaginary illness – and prolonging it would just be cruel in Richie’s eyes. So, he made a seemingly miraculous recovery from the malady that had left him on bedrest for half of a week. Even though he felt as if his heart was in his throat when he sat up on his beat-up mattress that he had had for as long as he could remember, he knew that he had to suck it up and be a man (or something). Besides, the whole quarry incident could be a one-time thing for all he knew, and he didn’t want to end up regretting wasting time with Eddie once school started up again. Hell, he didn’t even know if Eddie would be coming back next summer. There was always a chance that he wouldn’t; that he’d just drop out of Richie’s life forever, or something terrible would happen to him. He was, according to his mother, a terribly sick child – was it really outside the realm of possibility for Richie to consider that maybe he would become so sick that he wouldn’t be able to leave his bed? Or that he would die?

He did want to see Eddie. Richie had missed him a whole lot during their time apart, and Eddie had come by every day to knock on the door and ask about him. Richie had peeked through his curtains, looking down at the boy who would talk animatedly to his mother on the doorstep. He had even brought over some of Mrs’ S. home-made lemonade and some cookies that Richie knew Eddie and his grandma had made together, and Richie wasn’t too proud to admit he choked up a bit as they were brought up into his cave of despair. He wished he could keep them forever – preserve them in time, so he could treasure them for the rest of his life. He was pretty sure he was going to die young, but not young enough that he would be able to keep the lemonade and cookie from rotting away. So, even though his 3-day retreat from the world had been caused by Eddie in the first place, Richie knew that the first person he would want to see was him anyway. Even if he didn’t want to, he would have to – nothing was more suspicious than Richie suddenly deciding that he didn’t want to see his best friend for no apparent reason; he couldn’t risk anyone deciding to look too far into it and somehow find out the real reason why Richie was trying to hide himself away from the universe.

Richie felt restless for the entirety of the morning. He knew Eddie would probably come knocking at his usual time, which was on 11:00am. He found himself constantly stealing looks at the clock, mentally calculating and counting down the time he had left. He took his time eating breakfast, only half listening to his mom’s one-sided conversation with him about a lady she had met at the church craft group and her son. He really could not care less, but he let her talk – because what if she asked him questions? What if she asked him something he couldn’t answer? What if he gave himself away, and he ended up kicked out onto the curb, only for everybody in town to know what was wrong with the Tozier boy? It was safer to just let her speak, to pretend to listen as he fished for his cereal, watching how fast the minute hand moved. It wasn’t like she and Richie had much in common anyway. Sometimes he wondered if she was even his mother, or if she had found him on a porch somewhere and decided to raise him as her own. That would make a lot more sense, in his opinion. He almost hoped for it, because if (or when) they found out about _him,_ they would be able to console themselves quite easily as he wasn’t truly theirs to begin with. It wasn’t something they’d done wrong, no; it was a fault within himself, or his faceless monstrous parents who had carved out his sinful path for him before he had even been conceived.

As expected, Eddie knocked on the front door at precisely eleven. Richie had just pulled on his clothes for the day and tugged a brush through his hair (he needed a haircut pretty badly), and had been flicking through the channels aimlessly on T.V as his leg bounced up and down. His knock was distinct; three short sharp raps of the knuckle, with a particular cadence Richie had developed an ear for. He almost hoped it was the post-man somehow mimicking the boy, a weird practical joke. Richie didn’t move from where he sat on the sofa, listening intently as his mom opened the door and brightly told their visitor that ‘ _oh, he is feeling right as rain today! He’s been expecting you. Come right in!’_ , and Richie knew that unless he had woken up in a parallel universe in which the post-man was suddenly his dear friend, it was Eddie. He swallowed his nerves, he took a deep breath, and he stood up from the sofa. It was time to rip off the metaphorical band-aid.

It was possible that Richie had worked himself up a little more than he had needed to, as hanging out with Eddie after the quarry incident and Richie’s three-day bedrest was not as difficult or weird as he had thought it would be. After all, Richie reminded himself, Eddie didn’t know about the quarry incident. No one did except Richie. Eddie didn’t know a thing except for the fact that Richie had been sick for the past three days, and that reminder brought him a little solace. While he had been tense enough to give himself a bit of a headache in the first half an hour, by the time they both barrelled up the stairs towards Richie’s room so they could drink soda and listen to Richie’s modest collection of vinyl, it almost felt like old times again. Richie had a bad habit of overthinking things when he was alone to the point where they morphed and disfigured themselves into caricatures of what were. Situations that were one thing seemed like another, and this seemed to be the case for Eddie. Not to mention, Eddie seemed to always know effortlessly what to do and say to make Richie feel better. Just having him around brightened his mood significantly, and made things seem to be a little more okay than they had before. His three-days of living like a hermit seemed almost silly now. No one knew, and no one was going to know. No one was ever going to know.

“Hey Rich?” Eddie spoke up out of the blue. The two of them had been co-existing in relative silence, top-and-tailing atop Richie’s (surprisingly made-up) bed. They were listening to a crackling vinyl of Elvis Presley that Richie had borrowed from his father and forgotten to return months earlier as they flipped through comics and magazines. The afternoon was melting into evening, casting a warm orange glow throughout Richie’s room and casting long, dark shadows against his floor and walls. The same soft glow highlighted Eddie’s cheekbone and shone through his hair, bringing forward chocolatey tones that were otherwise lost in the curls. The entire time, Richie had been painfully aware of all points of contact between the two of them – Eddie’s legs pressing against his, his white-socked feet crossed over at the ankle near his chest. There was a point he had shifted to get more comfortable, and Richie had peered over his comic as discreetly as possible to see how intensely Eddie was focusing on his own. His pink tongue had peeked out between his lips as he read, his eyebrows pulling together in a concentrated frown. In a ringer tee adorned with an illustration of a car and some jean shorts, Eddie looked like he was relaxed. And even though Richie felt like he ought to be freaking out at the closeness, he was surprisingly calm. He didn’t think for a moment that this was another quarry incident in the making.

“Ye-aup?” Richie responded as he flipped a page, his eyes flickering over familiar illustrations with ease as he tapped his fingers against his thigh.

“Can I ask you something?” Eddie asked, and Richie looked over his comic at his friend. Eddie was staring pointedly at his comic, though it was the sort of stare that saw-through things. He knew that Eddie was purposefully trying to divert his gaze, trying not to look at Richie. In an instant, Richie felt his feelings of calm and relaxation get immediately uprooted and tossed across a mental football field. His heart began to press against his ribcage, hard enough that he was surprised they didn’t crack and snap, his palms beginning to sweat. Did he know? No, he couldn’t know. But what if he did? What then? What would Richie do? What if he knew? _How_ did he know? Did someone tell him?

“Of course, Eds. What’s up?” _Be calm. Be chill._ Richie kept his comic book propped in front of his face, though he was watching Eddie. Trying to pick up on anything – any emotion, any trace, any evidence. Anything that would give him an understanding, to prepare him for whatever bombshell that was on the tip of Eddie’s tongue. Eddie looked like he was almost in pain. And he refused to look at Richie, and _oh God, oh God, he knew, he had to know, he just had to know_ —

“Do you… Do you ever feel like…” Eddie began slowly, speaking deliberately, like he was choosing every word by hand from his internalised dictionary. Richie’s hands felt so sweaty that he was convinced he was going to drop the comic at any second. “Do you every feel like you want to hurt?”

Richie blinked as he processed Eddie’s words. He looked over at his friend who continued to stubbornly keep his gaze focused on anything that wasn’t Richie – feeling his paranoia drain away almost entirely. Eddie didn’t know. Thank God. He was in the clear.

“What— what do you mean?” Richie answered, trying not to sound too relieved. Eddie’s words were concerning in themselves, but he couldn’t help but feel like he had very narrowly dodged a bullet.

Eddie swallowed, and Richie saw his grip on the comics tighten to the point where his hands were trembling a little bit.

“I mean… Do you ever want to like… you know… hurt yourself? Or just… not exist anymore, sometimes? Like, that everything is just too much, and you just don’t really want to be… to be _you_ anymore? Like you want to go to sleep forever.” Eddie took a deep breath as his words escaped him like a verbal avalanche, cascading into Richie’s eardrums and consciousness all at once. He continued with barely an intake of breath. “Like you’re the worst person in the world, and you deserve it. Or you just feel so much, and it just builds up and up and up and you just want to… to make it stop. Like you’re just so horrible that you should just hurt yourself because you _deserve it_.”

_Yes_. Richie wanted to say. _Yes, I feel like that all the time. Yes, I feel like that every day. But I do deserve it. I’m disgusting. There’s so much wrong with me, Eddie. If you only knew, you’d hate me, like you should hate me. If everybody knew, everybody would hate me. But I lie to everyone. I lie to you, I lie to my parents, I lie to myself. Sometimes, I hate myself so much that I feel like I would be better off dead. That everybody would be better off if I was dead. Sometimes I think about stabbing myself with scissors, or rocks. I steal alcohol from the grocery store and I haven’t told anyone, and I won’t tell anyone, because I keep it all to myself in the back of my wardrobe and I drink it so I don’t feel so bad anymore. There is something wrong with me. There is something wrong with me. But I don’t know how to tell you – and you wouldn’t understand._

But he didn’t say that. He didn’t know how to say any of it. He had never ever told anyone about how he felt, because it was _crazy_ and he knew it was crazy, and it would be easier for people to think that if he killed himself, that it was some weird freak accident – that he hadn’t imagined it down to the detail. Kids didn’t die. Kids didn’t want to make themselves dead. Kids didn’t want to hurt themselves. But Richie did. And maybe Eddie did too. But what could he do about that? He didn’t know how to make it stop. And what if he didn’t, and he realised how crazy and weird Richie really was, and he never talked to him again?

“No,” Richie lied. And it was so obviously a lie, and he knew Eddie knew he was lying by the way he looked up from his comic book with his big pretty eyes. Eddie’s shoulders slumped, and he seemed to crumple up into himself like tissue paper. And Richie knew he should’ve said yes in that moment, because Eddie was asking _him_. Eddie trusted _him_ to talk to him, he wanted someone to confide in. And Richie was too scared. He was too scared and selfish, and he promised himself that if Eddie would ask again that night he wouldn’t lie. But Eddie ended up leaving soon after, with a thinly veiled excuse about helping with dinner and doing some chores. And Richie wished, he wished he could take it back. But Eddie didn’t ask again that evening – and Richie knew that was his own damn fault. Just as everything always was.


	8. cigarettes; 1988

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And for a moment, Richie was sure it was game over. Because Eddie was staring at him, long and hard, and Richie’s stomach was clenching and flipping, and his face felt hot with shame. He was sure, somehow, that Eddie knew. That he knew everything. That he could read it on Richie’s skin like it was written there. All of his sins clear as day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very hastily beta read, sorry for any mistakes!

Beverly stole cartons of cigarettes from the pharmacy. Richie knew this to be true as she had used him as a decoy without his knowledge one afternoon, encouraging him to buy a small, portable first-aid kit for the clubhouse to ‘impress Eddie’. Beverly knew, of course, that Richie had little to no knowledge on first-aid kits, meaning he would be loitering around the isles for a good while before mustering up the gut to ask for some help. A twelve-year-old beanpole of a boy awkwardly navigating through the shelves was a good enough distraction for the clerk as Beverly sweet talked him; and with a slight of hand, she had stolen two cartons of whatever was closest to her. Richie had only realised the scheme, and his subsequent role in it, once they left the store. Richie was empty handed as he didn’t have enough cash on hand for a first-aid kit that Eddie wouldn’t scoff at, and Beverly proposed that they buy milkshakes with the money he had saved. That proposal struck Richie with a realisation that Beverly had known, full well, that Richie didn’t have enough money to buy a first-aid kit in the first place.

Richie agreed to be Beverly’s Patsy on the principle that he would be paid in a carton of cigarettes himself. He truthfully hadn’t smoked a single cigarette up to that point in his life. Not that he would ever admit that to anybody except Beverly – if the rest of the Losers (their official club name, as coined by Richie himself) were to ask him, Richie smoked a pack a day when he was on his own. He had always wanted to – all the cool guys in movies smoked cigarettes, lighting them up as they narrowly avoided certain death a statistically improbable amount of times. While Richie lived a significantly less exciting life, he wasn’t about to pass up an opportunity to try something new to attempt to spice things up a little bit. And so, Beverly showed him how to smoke his first cigarette as they sat behind the library and shared a strawberry milkshake with double the cream on top.

From then on out, Richie was officially a _smoker_. He wouldn’t do it where he knew there was a risk of his parents, or anyone associated with them, to see him. He would only take the chance when he was in the quarry, or the clubhouse, or somewhere he knew was safe from any adult prying eyes. It wasn’t like he was chain-smoking or anything. In all honesty, cigarettes made him lightheaded and a little queasy. But there was something fun and mature and cool about lighting a cigarette with Beverly; everything he said instantly sounded more intriguing, even if sometimes punctuated with splutters and coughs.

Of course, Eddie hated Richie and Beverly’s new smoking habit. He was very vocal about this distaste; about how he found it filthy, and how smoking caused all kinds of cancers, which Richie wasn’t even sure was true. According to Eddie, everything caused cancer anyway, so that kind of cancelled most of his concerns out. The smoke did flare Eddie’s asthma up a fair bit though, so they’d try to step away from Eddie if the both of them were smoking to reduce the possibility of an attack. When it was just Richie and Eddie, he would still smoke on occasion – depending on if he had any on him, or if Eddie felt particularly wheezy that day. Eddie was a lot more forward with his distaste for the cigarettes when it was just the two of them. Around Beverly, Eddie was a little more reserved in his insults. Which didn’t really mean all too much considering even his more censored ranting and ravings could be pretty brutally cutting. But simultaneously it meant a whole lot to Richie, because it proved to him that he was different to the others in some way. Even if it was in the way that Eddie felt more comfortable being an asshole to him. He was more than happy to fill that position, to excel in it. Besides, what was better than hiding behind that façade? No one ever questioned the funny dickhead, the loudmouth who was truly nothing but smart-assed statements and crude jokes. There was nothing else to see. No depth or definition. No one would want to know, and that was how Richie wanted it to stay.

There was a certain unspoken safety in the things Richie had started to do. Things that Richie knew he shouldn’t be doing. To be completely fair, Richie had always done things he had never been supposed to do. He wasn’t good at _behaving_. He never had been. He wasn’t good at being polite, or helpful, or considerate. He wasn’t patient, he was a bit of a douchebag, and he never thought before he spoke. He was all the wrong things all at once and it seemed that as he grew and aged, and as his body changed into something unrecognisable to him, those parts of him only worsened. More and more things were wrong with him inside, and he could feel them. Sometimes it felt like he was being smothered, his windpipe crushed beneath an invisible unrelenting hand. Sometimes it felt like he had gaping wounds in his chest, never healing and forever festering. He felt as if it should be obvious. It felt so real, so vivid. Almost as if he was standing in front of his parents and friends, rotting and decaying, falling apart limb from limb and no one seemed to notice nor care.

Sometimes Richie felt as if he couldn’t get out of bed. That the weight that crushed his oesophagus had spread across the entirety of his body, exhausting him before the day had even begun. Sometimes he didn’t care about a fucking thing – he just wanted to lie in bed until he was forgotten by the world. Those days were particularly hard to pull through. Days where eating and showering and breathing and _existing_ felt like the most difficult chores on earth. They were nearly as bad as the days where Richie felt like he was on a ledge, trying desperately to keep his balance. The days where he would think about what it would be like to do stupid things because why not? What did he really have to lose? Everybody would be sad if something bad happened, sure – but they wouldn’t be sad once they knew about the PlayGirl magazines he had stashed beneath his bed. They wouldn’t be sad once they knew about who he really was. They instead would weep for the boy they wanted to have. A boy that would do the right thing. The Right Boy, the Right Richie.

And the worst days, the worst days of all, were the days Richie wanted to die. He had always had feelings like that. Fleeting and on occasion as a child, and never to the point where they would ever linger. But they were getting more frequent now. And Richie would entertain them. Some days, those thoughts all but consumed him. Those days scared him because he told himself he would never do something like that. That he wasn’t even capable of it – but he knew, he knew he was. And it would be simple. And it would be easy. And the pain would go, and the confusion, and he would be saving his family the brutal pain they would inevitably have to go through once the truth finally came to the surface like a bloated, rotting body. But he couldn’t; not yet at least. Because if he did that, he would never see Eddie again. And as selfish as that was, he knew that he was the only person on earth who saw Eddie in the way he did. That if he left, Eddie would be left with his mother and no one to understand like Richie always had. And that thought was enough to keep Richie with his feet on the ground, knowing that he still had a role to play. Even if one day, that role would come to an end, and Richie would have to find another reason not to go through with it.

Doing the things he shouldn’t be doing gave Richie a sense of control. Control over at least one aspect of his life. He couldn’t control the intrusive thoughts that kept him from sleeping. He couldn’t control the fact that he would never reach the expectations and dreams his parents, and everybody else, had for him. He couldn’t control the fact that Eddie had to leave at the end of every summer, and Richie would be left without a single word. He couldn’t control the fact that he was sure he was slowly going insane. But he could choose to smoke a cigarette. And he could choose to drink stolen alcohol on the floor of his bedroom while everybody was asleep or busy. And he could choose to steal magazines that had pictures of men that made Richie feel like he had electricity crackling away in his veins. And it gave him a small sense of relief, a small feeling of calm amongst the misfortune that was his life.

Because of these things, Richie soon felt as if he had become a really, really good liar. He hadn’t been particularly good at lying when he was younger – but he found that he grew to be very good at it very fast when he was doing it from the moment he said good morning at the breakfast table. It became a second nature to him. To slap on a smile, make a dumb joke, or regurgitate some fact that no one would digest or think twice about. Just be Richie. The Richie he always had been, even if it felt like he was wearing someone else’s skin now. He became so good at it that it eased his paranoia about getting uncovered and found out. And in the case where he couldn’t lie his way out of it, he would make a stupid joke out of it. It was ironic, really, because he felt like his whole life was one big fucking stupid joke. But it worked. It all worked. No one asked more than they wanted to know; and questions that felt too dangerous, too close to possibility hinting at the fact that Richie was fucking miserable and confused and all fucked up inside, were just brushed off with a quip about a dick or something equally as crude. Because everyone knew that if you made dick jokes you couldn’t possibly hate yourself so much that sometimes it built up and up to the point where he wanted to scream his throat raw and pull his skin off of his bones.

Why was he like this? Why was this happening? Why was this happening to him? How could he stop it?

Insert joke about sex here. Bonus points if it alluded to a woman’s body or blowjobs or something. Just proof that there was nothing to see here, that he was just like everybody else.

*

Beverly wasn’t at the clubhouse.

This bothered Richie, as he and Beverly had grown quite close over the summer, and he often felt as if they were riding many of the same wavelengths. She had been there the day before, and they had smoked cigarettes and played cards while Eddie lounged behind Richie on the hammock they had recently fashioned and read a book. He would swing on occasion, often kicking Richie’s head or shoulders lightly with his socked foot. Richie had protested but hadn’t bothered to move away because it didn’t bother him that much (at all). But on that day, she wasn’t there. Richie had no idea why, and neither did anybody else. Usually Beverly would say something to at least one of them regarding her whereabouts, so it was highly out of character for her to just completely flake on them last moment. Richie told himself that it was probably due to getting stuck at home doing chores, or that she got grounded like he did quite often, or maybe she was unwell. It was most likely one of those reasons. Yet, there was an unease in the pit of his stomach that just wouldn’t settle. Almost a feeling of foreboding. Of knowing that something was up, even though he couldn’t think for the life of him what that something could possibly be. And the same could be said for Eddie, evidently, as he was practically vibrating out of his skin. He sat atop an upturned milk crate, bouncing his knee something fierce and frowning as he picked at his nailbed and chewed viciously at his lip.

Eddie and Beverly got along very, very well. Sort of like how Beverly got along with Richie, but different. Richie wasn’t sure he completely understood it, and he got jealous sometimes because of that fact. He even asked Eddie if he was ‘into’ her – expecting whole heartedly for an affirmation that he had feelings for their mutual friend – only for Eddie to vehemently deny anything of the sort. Richie believed him. But it left him with no real answer as to why Beverly and Eddie were nearly as close as Richie and Eddie were after only a few weeks of knowing one another. Eddie had told him that it was complicated and that he wouldn’t get it. That they had a lot in common when it came to their personal life. Richie knew that Beverly didn’t have both parents. And he knew her dad was a scumbag (everybody in town knew as much). So, he supposed it did make sense in a way because Eddie only had a single parent who was also pretty shitty in her own way. Richie just felt like there was a lot he was missing, especially when it was the three of them hanging out. And he hated that feeling, because it made him feel like Eddie was going to like Beverly more than him and decide he didn’t want to hang out with Richie anymore. That hadn’t happened yet, and Richie hoped it wouldn’t – because they had been best friends for at least two years now – but there was always that niggling feeling. That doubt that would fester in the back of his mind that Eddie would find someone he liked better than Richie. And that wasn’t hard. Mostly anybody was better than Richie.

Beverly’s absence stuck out like a sore thumb, but in truth she wasn’t the only one who was a no show on that particular day. In fact, Mike and Bill were both also absent, though this was explained. Mike was involved in a bunch of extracurricular activities (gross) that saw him often divvying up his time so that he was able to attend to all of them, and Bill had told Stan that he had a family event he had to attend the next city over. So it was a relatively quiet day with only Richie, Eddie, Stan, and Ben wasting away their time in the shoddily built, most probably pretty dangerous, structure.

“So, what are we gonna do?” Ben lamented his boredom aloud as he sat in the beanbag chair Mike had mysteriously acquired a few days before. He had simply explained the chair to have come from one of his many mysterious activities beyond the Losers club, and no one had asked for any further details. If they didn’t know, no one could accidentally snitch if the way he had gotten it was of a Richie-esque nature (illegally, that was). Not that Richie thought for a second Mike would ever do anything risky _nor_ illegal – he hadn’t ever fallen for Richie’s peer pressuring tactics, and when he didn’t want to do something he simply would refuse. But to be truthful, Richie didn’t know a whole lot about Mike’s home life or his life outside of their summertime bullshit. He had never really thought to ask, and Mike wasn’t the type to talk much about what was going on for him behind the scenes.

“I have no idea. Does anyone have any money? Maybe we can go to the arcade or see a movie.” Stan suggested half-heartedly as he leaned up against a support beam, sipping at a lukewarm can of soda Richie had left in the clubhouse overnight from the day prior. Richie was situated in the hammock, one foot dragging along the ground as he fiddled with his mostly empty carton of cigarettes and his gold Zippo.

“I have some change, but not enough for goddamn tickets to the cinema for all of us. Besides, I _already seen_ Who Framed Roger Rabbit and Die Hard, so there’s nothing else really worth watching.” Richie stated flatly, before dramatically sighing and tilting the hammock so he could look over at his bored-shitless company. “I think I have enough to buy us all soda.”

“How the hell did you see Die Hard? Isn’t that super violent?” Stan scrunched his nose up in Richie’s direction, tapping his fingers along the outside of his drink in a rhythmic pattern. Richie shrugged, finally flicking open his lighter decisively and pulling a cigarette from the carton to place between his lips.

“He’s bullshitting you, Stan. He hasn’t _seen_ Die Hard. His mom would kick his ass if he did.” Eddie commented flatly, standing up from where he had been seated across the room and walking over to the hammock. Richie rolled his eyes at him, flipping him off. “Get up. I wanna have a go.”

“Fuck _right_ off. I was here first.” Richie argued, not moving an inch, and instead pointedly ignoring Eddie’s pouty glare. 

“You’ve been in the hammock for like ages, cockhead. Move the fuck over _at least_ —” Eddie protested, shoving at Richie’s calves. Richie knew he would end up moving for Eddie. He always did – but he was more interested in the prospect of sharing a hammock than getting up entirely. Eddie was small enough that it wasn’t uncomfortable, and the proximity made Richie feel tingly and prickly all over. And Eddie was warm, and he smelt good, and that was the closest thing Richie was ever going to get – so he’d take it.

“I mean, we can just hang out and chill. I think I can cover a pizza or somethin’, though Eds won’t be able to eat any ‘cause he’s got diseases.” Richie smirked as he pocketed his lighter and cigarettes, inhaling steadily from the one he had quite expertly (if he did say so himself) lit despite Eddie’s hellbent, yet feeble, attempts to get him out of the coveted hammock.

“Don’t _fucking_ ignore me, Richie—excuse me? You’re a fucking _disease_ , fuckbag. I can eat a goddamn pizza, there’s no nuts on it and I can just take the cheese off the slices. Can you just fucking _move_? The milkcrate was hurting my butt because _someone_ ruined the sitting pillow.” Eddie’s cheeks were pink with flustered frustration as he fired off at Richie, just as Richie had wanted him to. Richie could only grin at him around his cigarette, shrugging as he moved just the smallest amount to the side. Eddie seized that opportunity, shoving a leg into the hammock and using the leverage to force himself into it – lying practically half on top of Richie. Eddie’s sharp elbow purposefully came down into Richie’s stomach.

“ _Oof_ —Jesus Christ, Eddie, do you wanna perforate one of my goddamn internal organs with your bones?” Richie protested, to which Eddie looked up with a shit-eating grin. The expression made Richie’s stomach swoop and do what felt like a flip inside of him, twisting up uncomfortably into his throat. It almost felt as if his internal organs were tangled up like a slinky that had been pulled too far apart before being let go. Richie had had countless childhood slinkies lost to a similar fate – thrown in the trash or left forgotten in the yard until they rusted into nothing. Eddie was beautiful. The type of beautiful that made Richie realise that he was too pretty to be seen with him; that he was, in comparison, a toad.

They ended up settling on Richie’s idea of just hanging out with some soda and pizza. It was simple, but a way to pass the time – and Richie found that these days he would rather do pretty much anything except go home to his family. Outside of the house, he could be anything. He could hide and lie as much as he wanted; he could be as loud as he wanted to be, tell whatever crude jokes that came to mind. He could be whoever he wanted to be. Cool, funny-guy Richie. Surrounded by friends who never asked the same questions his parents did. Kids, like him, who had no expectations of him. Kids who didn’t think of anything beyond the next day, or the upcoming week, or school. It was safe. Being around people who he could tell to fuck off, or shut up, whenever he wanted to. People that didn’t have to know if he didn’t want them to. He couldn’t do that with his parents. It was much harder to dodge their invasive questions. They could go through his things if they wanted to. They could interrogate him at the dining table. They could ground him, or force him to do chores he hated, if they figured he was lying to them. Richie knew he couldn’t trust them. Really, he couldn’t trust anyone – but least of all his parents.

The four of them walked up to the corner-store and local pizza joint. Richie had enough cash to cover the pizza, and Eddie had swung by Mrs. S’ place on the way up to ask for some change for sodas. Mrs S., generous as always, gave Eddie enough to cover the sodas and even an additional pizza (which was a relief as Richie highly doubted that one pizza between three teenage boys would last very long or do very much). By the time they were back at the clubhouse, the four of them were starving. The pizzas and soda were practically thrown onto the ground as they sat on the floor on their knees in a weird, almost ritualistic, misshapen circular formation. Richie was surprised that Eddie didn’t seem bothered about the lack of plates, cutlery, or napkins – he was just as eager as the rest of them to eat as they opened the boxes and grabbed a piece each. There was something about the sheer gross, sloppy imperfectness that came with the pizzas from the local joint that made them that much more delicious. They had to walk an hour to and from, so the pizzas weren’t exactly piping hot anymore; they were lukewarm and soft and greasy, and yet in that moment Richie was convinced it was the food of the Gods. Eddie was strategically pulling the cheese from the top of his pieces, dropping them onto the top sections of the pizza boxes. Richie leaned forward to grab the discarded cheese, because fuck – he wasn’t about to let good cheese go to waste. He expected Eddie to chide him over how gross it was to eat food somebody else had touched, but he was instead met with a boyish grin that sent his heart into the goddamn atmosphere. Ah, _balls_. Not even seeing Eddie with sauce smeared on his cheeks seemed to put a dampen on the sparks that ricocheted inside his ribcage from seeing that smile, the way his big chocolate eyes seemed to shimmer even in the dim lighting of the clubhouse.

They ate in silence for a good while, devouring the slices between them. Richie ended up eating the slice Eddie couldn’t finish, and he didn’t even mind that it was stripped from cheese. In fact, it tasted sorta better with the knowledge that Eddie had eaten some of it, that his mouth was touching something Eddie’s mouth had. It was a weird thought, one Richie that hadn’t ever occurred to Richie previously. But found himself looking forward to volunteering to finish the last half of Eddie’s drink if the opportunity ever arose.

“I think a new girl is starting at our school after summer’s through.” Stan commented idly as he strategically nibbled at the crust of a pizza slice. They had collectively all but demolished the pizzas at the point in which Stan decided to start another discussion, with only a few stray crusts and pepperonis remaining. Richie was attempting to ration out his soda with carefully measured sips so that he wouldn’t run out too long before he decided to head home. “I saw her family moving in the other day. She lives in one of the new, fancy houses. You know, the expensive ones? Yeah, she lives there. Her family looks rich and stuff. I’m pretty sure she’s our age.”

“And why are you telling us this? Is she famous or something? ‘Cause, Stanny-boy, I really don’t give a fuck.” Richie declared as he sat back, his legs crossed in front of him and one hand behind him to support his weight. Eddie was cradling his soda in two hands, sitting cross legged beside Richie. Ben decidedly closed the pizza boxes, stacking them atop one another neatly. Ben was another ‘nice boy’, as his mother would say. The sort of boy that made Richie look like pure shit without even meaning to. He liked Ben, sure. He was his friend. But there was a part of Richie that felt like he almost hated him, all the same. For his crush on Beverly, and how _easy_ it was for him. For the fact that he could ever be considered a ‘nice boy’. For being smart, maybe even smarter than Richie. As much as he liked Ben, Richie knew that if he had the opportunity to give him a bloody nose, he would without a second thought.

“Screw you, asshole. I was getting to it. So yeah, I’m like, pretty sure she’s our age. Or like, maybe a year older. But catch this, right? She had… _boobs_. Like, _proper_ boobs. And a pretty face, too. But like, _boobs_.” Stan motioned in front of his chest as he spoke, and Richie felt like he had sandpaper on his tongue. He wasn’t prepared for this sort of conversation. He didn’t even know what to say – what was he supposed to say? He knew he was supposed to be into boobs, but he had truthfully never really thought twice about them. Richie’s eyes moved over to Ben, who’s eyebrows had shot up to his near hairline, a demure blush sprinkling across his soft cheeks. God, he was so _wholesome_ Richie wanted to stab him with a thumbtack just to make him cry.

“ _Really_?” Ben breathed, leaning forward slightly in obvious interest.

“ _Of course_ she does. All girls get tits. Don’t tell me you haven’t noticed. Even Beverly has boobs, and I know for a fact you’ve noticed them, Benjamin.” Richie stated sharply, taking a languid sip from his soda can. Ben’s face flushed a bright red, and Richie shot him an almost wolfish grin as he revelled in his obvious humiliation. _How did that feel?_ To feel dirty and _wrong_. _Fuck you_.

“Richie—” Eddie began, and he could hear the frown in his voice. And usually, that would make Richie slow down or even stop and reconsider himself. But he didn’t this time. No, he could feel a dull flare of anger deep in the pits of his stomach. Anger that he knew, rationally, wasn’t justified because Ben didn’t do anything wrong. But it wasn’t only Ben he was angry at. He was angry at everything, everyone. He was angry at Stan, at the new girl who lived in the new house with the boobs. And he was angry at Eddie, and Beverly, and himself. Always himself.

“I don’t get why it’s such a big deal. They’re just boobs. Just wait until you see them properly, or like, when you see a girl fully naked. _That’s_ when it gets good.” Richie continued, huffing his chest out and shooting a pointed look at Ben who was now actively avoiding his gaze.

“You’re talking like you have some sort of experience.” Stan snorted, crossing his arms and regarding Richie with clear scepticism. “Since when have you been such a womaniser, huh, Tozier?”

“Uh, I _have_ had experience, thank you very much. Eddie’s mom, for one, but I’ve totally hooked up with girls before.” Richie lied nonchalantly, shrugging his shoulders as if it wasn’t even worth discussing. He had to play it cool if he was going to be believed; pretend like it was no big deal.

“You’re so full of shit.” Stan rolled his eye and sighed with clear exasperation, though Ben looked near convinced. Despite how smart he was, Ben was naïve and easy to lie to. He just believed most of what Richie said without asking questions. Richie could probably talk him into just about anything if he tried hard enough. “Who?”

“I’m not telling you. I don’t fucking kiss and tell. But why would I lie? I literally just didn’t tell you because it’s no biggie. I thought all you guys had touched a girl’s boobs before. Guess I was wrong, huh.” Richie could feel Eddie’s eyes boring into the side of his face. He could see him out of his periphery, though he wasn’t able to make out the expression on his face. Part of him didn’t want to know. Most of him didn’t want to know.

“I won’t believe you until you prove it.” Stan stated finally, stubbornly sticking with his (correct) assumptions that Richie was full to the brim with bullshit. Richie knew Stan would be one of the hardest to convince of his plethora of little white lies, so he’d have to step up his game. Maybe he’d even steal something of his sister’s as proof, just so he’d shut up and not question Richie’s indisputable straightness.

“I believe him.” Ben shrugged, as if he was making his own mind on the matter. “I dunno why he’d lie.”

“See? Ben believes me. You just don’t wanna believe that I got pussy before you.” Richie knew he was poking the bear, but he really couldn’t help himself. Would he really be the Richie Tozier, trash-talking-extraordinaire who never knew how to stop himself if he didn’t push it too far? Was he even himself if he didn’t make everybody in his immediate vicinity want to punch his teeth in? And maybe he wanted that. Maybe he wanted to spit blood. Maybe he wanted a reason to be hurt on the outside in a way that showed how hurt he was on the inside.

“Leave Ben alone, Richie. You’re all talk. Ben, if you want to have a girl be interested in you, do literally the opposite of everything Richie does and you’ll be absolutely fine.” Stan gave Ben a solid pat on the back, to which Ben’s blush only seemed to intensify. “And it’s totally cool that you’ve got a thing for Bev. She’s cool, she’s funny, she’s pretty. I get it.”

“Please, _please_ don’t say anything.” Ben pleaded, distress all too clear in his voice. Richie sneered from behind his soda can. Why not? Why was it such a big deal for him? No one would disown him for being into Beverly. Nothing truly bad would happen – the only risk was that of rejection. And Richie would personally prefer being rejected over being terrified of your own feelings because everybody thought they were inherently wrong. He wanted to grab Ben and shake him, to scream in his face to get over it. But he stayed put, instead changing positions so he had both legs pulled up to his chest.

“We won’t. Everybody’s got things for girls we know, right? It’s normal. We’re _twelve_ years old — surely your parents have had the talk with you about girls.” Stan commented incredulously, and Ben and Eddie both mumbled awkwardly as they shrugged. To be fair to them, Richie’s parents had also never talked to him about girls or puberty or anything really. He kinda wished they had, that there was a way that he could just talk about what was going on with his body without feeling embarrassed and weird. That he could ask his dad why he felt certain things, or when he should start shaving, or when his voice was going to finally drop properly. The sheepishness among the four of them was palpable, and Stan looked to Richie for a bit of help.

“Don’t look at me. I told ya I’ve gone and done the real deal. But you don’t wanna believe me, Staniel.”

“Come on, Rich. Help me out here. You must have a thing for someone, right? You must think some girl is pretty. What, is it Tammy? It’s Tammy, isn’t it? From school?” Stan was trying to make both Ben and Eddie feel comfortable, and Richie had no idea why. It all seemed stupid in his opinion. Just more lies he had to construct to keep up with. Tammy was a good suggestion, though. And Richie hadn’t thought of a good scapegoat yet, so Tammy worked just fine. She was nice enough, and pretty enough. And a lot of guys thought so, from what Richie had overheard in the hallways. In times like these, he felt like he was an alien wearing the skin of a human. Pretending to be like them, observing their every movement so that they wouldn’t clue in on him and subsequently destroy him.

“Uh—Yeah. Yeah, it’s Tammy. She’s hot as fuck, dude. Like, _shit_. Have you seen her? I’d—I’d love to get a piece of that, you know what I mean? But sadly, my heart belongs elsewhere. I’m in a _fully_ committed relationship with Eddie’s mom.” Richie felt like a fucking idiot. He was parroting what he had heard other guys say, what he figured was how you were supposed to talk about girls. In reality, Tammy was nice enough for Richie to hang out with and enjoy himself. But that was as far as his brain was interested in taking it. Plus, he was pretty damn sure that Tammy had absolutely no interest in any of his interests, so they wouldn’t even have anything to talk about. Beverly was the only girl Richie had ever really clicked with and found himself able to talk to; most of the girls at school wouldn’t even go near him. He didn’t blame them.

Eddie, surprisingly, didn’t respond to Richie’s cheap shot statement. He was quiet as a mouse beside Richie, in a similar sitting position to him but smaller. It was weird. Eddie was always pretty vocal in conversations they would have, sharing his views and opinions and actively rallying against everything that came out of Richie’s mouth. Yet it was almost as if he was trying to fade into the background, unnoticed. Richie could tell that he was uncomfortable and anxious. He could tell by the way he had curled up into himself, his arms acting as a protective barrier around his body. He could tell by the way he seemed to even be purposefully shallowing out his breaths so that no one would notice he was still there. He looked pale, like he was going to be sick all over the front of his shirt, his fingers twitching as he dug them into his legs. Richie could see the crescent shaped indentations where his nails dug into his skin. Richie did that sometimes. He would dig his nails in as deep as he could, until the skin would split, and he would either bleed or bruise.

“Beep beep, Richie. Don’t be a shithead.” Stan ran his long fingers through his curls, giving Richie a very obviously bitter look.

“What about Eddie?” Ben asked, and Richie could practically feel Eddie shrink into himself. Like a snail retracting into it’s shell, Eddie wanted nothing to do with this conversation. Maybe it was because he still thought girls were gross; or maybe he did have a crush, and he was embarrassed about it. Or maybe he didn’t even know about sex yet. How could he _not know?_ He supposed his mom wouldn’t ever talk to him about it, lest she taint her precious, sick son. And Eddie said he didn’t have friends back home, and he wasn’t the type to take the risk of stealing a porno film or magazine or even go to the library like Richie had.

“Eddie doesn’t know about fucking.” Richie finally concluded aloud, slapping his hands against the tops of his knees. Eddie looked at him, the blush on his cheeks streaking down his neck and tinging the tips of his ears. He looked almost ready to cry, and Richie tried not to think about that.

“I-I do! I know about fucking, shut up.” Eddie hissed, rewarding Richie with a monumental shove into his side. Richie lost his balance a little, having to slam his hand down onto the dirt floor to prevent himself from faceplanting hard. “And… And I have a girlfriend. So, shut up. She’s back home, so you don’t know her.” Eddie uncurled from around himself, instead sitting cross legged on the ground. He mirrored Stan’s crossed arms across the chest, his jaw firm as he seemed to click into some steely resolve that Richie hadn’t seen any trace of only moments before. Ben looked at Eddie with a wide-eyed gaze that put owls to shame, his mouth open in a stupid, surprised ‘o’.

Richie didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know what to say, even. He was sure Eddie was lying. Of course he was lying. If Eddie had a girlfriend, he would tell Richie. Why wouldn’t he? They were best friends, surely Eddie would confide in him about some girl he had back home. But was it really, truly that far outside of the realms of reality? Was it really something so out of touch, so unbelievable that it had to be untrue? Richie hated to admit it, he really did, but he knew there was every possibility that it was true. That Eddie had a pretty girlfriend at home, because he was handsome and funny and smart and a _nice boy_. That he just hadn’t told Richie because Richie was a loudmouthed clown of a boy who never knew when enough was enough. Did Eddie have a girlfriend?

The jealousy that filled Richie felt like thousands of fists pummelling his gut before he was set alight. It was white hot and sickening, and he curled his hands into fists as tight as he could, digging his nails into his palms with intention to try and set off the feelings that overwhelmed his entire body. It was all consuming, and Richie’s brain seemed to switch into a new gear. He was halfway between wanting to punch someone here or punch concrete until his hands were bruised and bloody. He wanted to get far away from here, never see Eddie again. Because how _could he_? How could he not tell Richie? How could he betray him? How could he have a girlfriend? Richie was his best friend – was that not enough? What if this stupid girlfriend of his stopped him from coming back to Derry?

“Really? What’s her name?” Ben asked, and the fact that he seemed so unbothered made Richie even more furious. How was no one else upset? Why was it always him? How could everybody else be so in control of themselves all the time? Why was Richie always the one who was made to feel stupid and insane?

Eddie paused, looking to Richie for a split second before he looked back to Stan and Ben. He looked like a sheet of paper, like he had seen a ghost. Like he had been caught out doing something bad, something he was never meant to be caught doing.

“Her name is… Her name’s… Lu…cy.” Eddie finally concluded, choosing every syllable as if he was reading off a script and didn’t know his own lines. He was lying.

He was lying.

 _He was lying_.

Richie was instantly hit with a wave of relief, followed by guilt. The same guilt he always carried around on his shoulders, that criticised him for everything he did. The same guilt that made him hate himself more and more. The crippling guilt, the guilt from the quarry, from the grocery store, from whenever he let himself masturbate. It made him sick to his stomach.

Why was he like this? Why did he feel like this? Why? Why? Why? Why couldn’t he just let Eddie go and be happy, why was he so upset by the idea that he had a girlfriend? That was _good_ for Eddie. Eddie needed that. Yet in that instant, Richie felt like the whole world had been yanked out from under his feet. That Eddie had, in some way, turned on his heels and spat right in his face with a ‘fuck you’. Richie wanted to pull his own fucking hair out by the root.

“Have you—” Ben started with another round of interrogative questions, when Richie interrupted abruptly, slamming a hand down atop a pizza box.

“I’m sorry to cut this one short, my good ol’ pals. But Eddie’s gotta go home early today to bake with his g’ma and I promised my mom I’d walk him back so he wouldn’t get carried away by the witch’s flying monkey henchmen.” Richie wiped his dirty hands on his pants, and looked over to Eddie, who looked like a deer in the headlights. He still looked pale and sickly, and it made Richie remember the first time he had seen Eddie ever. Small and frail. A baby bird never allowed to leave the nest. A fledgling never allowed to fly. “Isn’t that right Eds?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I forgot about it.” Eddie mumbled, and Richie wasn’t sure if he was the worst liar Richie had ever heard, or if he just knew Eddie better than he knew himself. Maybe it was both.

*

There was a definitive awkwardness between Richie and Eddie as they left the clubhouse and began on the walk home. An awkwardness that hadn’t been there before, and now felt like a ball and chain attached to Richie’s ankle, weighing him down and making every step that much harder. Richie wasn’t exactly sure why there was that feeling in the first place – what part of the terrible conversation that had just unfolded had shoved a wedge between the two of them.

It hurt. It did, because usually they talked about everything together. But Richie didn’t know what to say. He felt almost ashamed of himself, embarrassed of the stupid persona he had slipped so easily into. He wasn’t that guy at all, and yet Richie felt as if he had no choice but to be that guy. Because it was so much easier to be someone else than himself. It was just too hard, and too scary, and Richie didn’t know when he had stopped being actual Richie and started being the Richie everybody else saw. And he didn’t know where he began and ended.

Richie listened to the way the leaves, sticks and foliage crackled and snapped beneath their sneakers. He chanced a look at Eddie – a stolen glance. He looked as if he was deep in thought, frowning like an old man. Richie wanted to say something. To break the tense atmosphere. But he couldn’t think of the words. So instead, they continued to walk in silence. They were nearly at the edge of the forest, where the trees began to thin out before they reached the residential areas, when Eddie stopped. Richie hadn’t noticed at first, taking a few more steps before he realised he was alone. He turned around, seeing Eddie a few steps behind, standing beside a huge tree. He was looking at Richie with an expression Richie didn’t recognise, but it was something serious and determined. Richie’s palms felt clammy.

“You okay, spaghetti?” Richie’s voice sounded crackly, and he cleared his throat. The sound echoed, bouncing off trees and whatever else lurked among them. Richie wondered that if he decided to walk into the tree line and keep walking if he would ever be found. How far did they go? When did it stop? It seemed to go on forever. Far past Derry. Far past everything and anything. Into nothing.

“I lied.” Eddie finally said. His tone sounded weird and strained, like his throat was too tight.

“What? What the fuck are you talking about dude?” Richie felt a weird spike of anxiety and irritation shoot up his spinal column, and he reached out to lean on the nearest tree. Eddie shifted his weight, licking his lips before he carefully continued with a wavering tone.

“Lucy is the name of my neighbour’s dog.” Eddie finally said, and Richie could see a very real humiliation and shame creep onto his face. Richie hated that. He never wanted Eddie to feel ashamed about anything in his life, ever. He deserved to be happy. Fuck, he deserved to be happy. Richie would do anything to make sure Eddie was happy. He would die for it. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I never have. I don’t talk to girls. I don’t— I’ve never had a crush on a girl. It kinda scares me. It’s stupid. I know it’s stupid. Especially when you’ve had so much experience. I must sound like a fucking baby.” Eddie sounded like he was about to cry, and Richie had no idea what to do. What was he supposed to do? How could he make it better? How could he admit to Eddie that it was a lie? Because Eddie was smart enough to question why he had to lie in the first place; Eddie was always smart enough to put together the pieces.

“Don’t say that, Eds. It happens at different times for everyone. You’re probably just a late bloomer. I started puberty like, freakishly early. I’m gonna be the next bigfoot by 16, you’ll see. Besides, it’s not a big deal. It’s not even that good.” Richie shrugged, trying his hardest to try and stop Eddie from getting so upset and feeling so embarrassed. If only he knew. If only Eddie knew. God, Richie was a piece of shit.

“I— I dunno, Richie. I— I think there’s… there’s something…” Eddie’s brows furrowed, and he took a few steps towards Richie. Richie’s heart hammered ruthlessly in his chest, travelling up his throat and into his brain. His mouth felt dry, his head filling with static. “I think there’s something… wrong. With… with me.” Eddie finally said, his voice quieter now with less distance between them.

“What do you mean?” Richie breathed, his grip on the tree bark tightening as he could feel his pulse in every part of his body. He felt almost disorientated.

If only he knew. If only he knew.

 _Me too_ , he wanted to scream _. Me too_.

“I mean that I—" Eddie hastily began before he cut himself off. The silence fell between them once again, Eddie closer now, and Richie could touch him if he wanted to. And he wanted to, but part of him was also terrified. He was scared that by touching Eddie, he would either burst into hellfire or Eddie would get infected and ruined. Just another thing to make him sick. Richie was the worst sickness of them all.

They stood there like that for a while. Richie wasn’t sure how long. He knew they ought to move, but Richie couldn’t. He couldn’t move a muscle. He was frozen there, unable to breathe or think. Stuck in the forest, soon to become part of it. To rot away into nothing. What ever happened to the Tozier boy? Wasn’t he always a little strange? Always a little queer?

“Richie,” Eddie’s voice was so quiet he could barely hear it. It sounded almost like the wind. “I haven’t… I’m too scared to kiss a girl. I’m scared I’ll mess up, or that she’ll think I’m gross, or that I won’t like it. What if it makes me sick?”

Richie licked his lips, tasting the salt of sweat and metal of blood. His knees felt weak, and he tried with every part of him not to think of Eddie wanting to kiss girls. Eddie with any girls. Eddie looking at a girl and feeling something, wanting her. Richie wanted to be wanted. He wanted to be wanted—

“Don’t be stupid, Eds. You got nothin’ to worry about. Kissing is easy. I’m a pro, trust me. You’ll be a wizard at it. I can tell.” Richie managed to bite out a few words, and despite wanting them to sound strong and sure, they sounded almost hollow to his own ears. The bravo of his lies before had withered away into a skeleton of itself. And he knew that in moments like these, if Eddie looked – like, really looked – any closer, he would find all the truths within the cracks in Richie’s façade.

And for a moment, Richie was sure it was game over. Because Eddie was staring at him, long and hard, and Richie’s stomach was clenching and flipping, and his face felt hot with shame. He was sure, somehow, that Eddie knew. That he knew everything. That he could read it on Richie’s skin like it was written there. All of his sins clear as day.

“I’m gonna ask you something, Richie. Promise me you won’t hate me. It’ll sound weird, but I need you to promise me you won’t hate me. I just… I trust you. I trust you with my life. I don’t trust anybody in the same way that I trust you. But you need to promise me you won’t hate me, okay? I can’t… I can’t deal with the idea of you hating me. I think I would die, Richie, if you ever hated me.” Eddie bumbled, a string of words that were spoken in a flurry of anxiety. Richie could feel every one of them puncture another hole into his lungs.

If only Eddie knew – he was the one with every reason to hate Richie.

“I won’t hate you. I can’t ever hate you, Eddie. I promise. I pinky swear on my life.” Richie said, and he meant it. He always meant it with Eddie.

There was another heavy silence. Eddie was fiddling with the hem of his shirt, his eyes fixated on the tree just past Richie. Richie waited with bated breath not sure what exactly to expect. He was sure he could hear the trees around him growing. Eddie was so still he almost looked like he was made from marble. Still. Unmoving. Richie wanted to touch his skin to see if it was cold.

“Can I practice?” Eddie’s words were so quiet Richie wasn’t even sure if he had spoken, or if it was in his head. Richie blinked, all the blood in his body rushing into his brain. His head felt hot and heavy, his limbs too long, his body like it weighed too much and nothing at all simultaneously. He opened his mouth, his brows pulled together as he thought to ask for clarification. Was this all in his head again? “So I don’t fuck it up, so I know what to do. You have so much… so much experience, and I trust you. Can you show me how? Can I practice? Please, Richie. I’m… I’m terrified. I won’t tell anyone, as long as you don’t.”

Richie could hardly believe his own ears. He felt like he was going to faint. He looked at Eddie with his jaw clenched tight, and his eyes wide. He wasn’t even sure if he was in his body anymore. It felt prickly all over. Too real.

What was he supposed to say to that?

He should say no.

This was bad. This was a bad idea. What if Eddie somehow knew? What if anybody would find out or see? No, no one would see. They were alone here, and it would only be for a second or two. But what if Eddie would feel it? What if he somehow could feel it come out of Richie, like some sort of aura? What if he thought Richie was disgusting and never wanted to look at him again? What if he never wanted to touch him again? What if he never came back? Was this a joke?

“Um… I…” Richie stammered, wiping his hands on his shorts. He laughed, though it was void of humour. He felt like he was going to throw up. “Are you… Are you, like… Serious right now, Eds? ‘Cause this isn’t a funny joke.”

“I’m serious.” Eddie looked serious. Stone-cold. And Richie knew it. He knew it. And he knew he should say no, because this was a horrible idea.

But no one would see.

And this would probably be his only chance to ever do something like this with Eddie.

And Eddie wanted him to, Eddie trusted him. Saying no would hurt his feelings, and maybe their friendship. Saying no would be suspicious, wouldn’t it?

No one had to know. No one would know.

“Okay.” Richie said, softly. He was about to speak up and repeat himself, but Eddie had heard him loud and clear as he stepped forward towards Richie, his cheeks dusted with pink. Richie’s heart was in his mouth, his hands shaking. He hadn’t kissed anybody before. He had lied. He was a liar. He was a liar. He was so many things. What if he ruined Eddie too? What if he ruined Eddie? What if he made him sick too? What if he—

Would it be so bad?

He wouldn’t be alone then.

He was so selfish.

Richie wanted to be wanted. He could pretend.

“Okay.” Eddie echoed, standing real close now. Richie could feel his breath, could feel the warmth coming from his body. Richie had to look at him. He had no choice. He had to look at how beautiful he was; the determined glimmer in his eyes, his pillowy lips, his thick and dark eyelashes. Richie licked his chapped lips, his swallow crackling in his ears. “Show me how.”

Richie had no idea.

“You… Well… first, you…” Richie’s tongue felt too big for his mouth. “Pretend that… that you’re the girl. Because you’re smaller than me. Just… copy what I do when it happens.” Richie muttered. Push down the guilt. Push it down. Lie, lie, lie, lie. Liar, liar, liar. “So I… I put my hands here.” Richie gently placed his hands on Eddie’s hips. His hands felt weirdly big in comparison, and this felt weirdly close and forbidden. He didn’t squeeze – his touch was practically a ghost touch, barely even there. Eddie nodded, solemnly, and Richie swallowed again. His mouth was dry. It tasted like pizza and soda, and he was sweating so bad, and he felt gross and grotty and –

“Hurry the fuck up.” Eddie muttered, his face bright red all over now, and Richie could feel him trembling just a little. Shaking. At least he wasn’t the only one.

“Okay, okay. Uh… And then, and then you… You tilt your head a bit to the side, okay?”

“Okay.”

Richie leaned in. He felt like he was barely even moving. The world was silent. He was sure everything around him had stopped, frozen in place. He half expected to wake from a dream, or to feel something else. A slap. Concrete.

Instead, he felt Eddie’s lips.

Richie was sure he was dead. He forgot how to breathe, the air catching in his lungs. His grip fell away from Eddie’s hips, yet he felt Eddie’s hand press up against his sternum. Eddie’s lips were the softest thing Richie had ever felt against his own chapped ones. He opened his eyes, not even remembering closing them, and looked at Eddie – his eyes were closed, all frustration seeming to have melted from his features. Richie was going to pull away, but Eddie had other ideas – his lips moved, and Richie felt like his brain and body were going into panic mode as he had no idea what in the fuck he was doing. He was sure his braces were going to cut Eddie or something, and his glasses were definitely knocking into Eddie’s cheekbones. But Eddie’s lips captured Richie’s, and the kiss went from something chaste to something else. A proper kiss. A movie kiss. Lips moving with lips sort of kiss. Richie’s body felt as if it was housing a million caged fireworks that had all been lit all at once. He felt like he was going to combust into a million sparks or fireflies. He never, ever, wanted it to end. Eddie was so soft. And he smelt good. And Richie could lie to himself and tell himself that he was wanted. That Eddie wanted to kiss him, to hold his hand. That Eddie liked him too. That Eddie wanted to be his boyfriend or something, that that was okay. He could pretend.

But Eddie pulled away.

And the world that seemed to be bursting full of colours and possibilities slipped through Richie’s fingers, as he was confronted with a harsh and brutal truth. That was it. Eddie would never see him that way. Eddie would never kiss him like he wanted him to. Eddie would never be his. Richie would never be wanted.

_Fucking faggot._

Richie stood in place as Eddie stepped back. His chest was heaving with short puffs of breath, his cheeks now a comfortable pink instead of a tomato red. He didn’t wipe his lips. Richie licked his, before he could stop it. And he could taste Eddie there still, and he wanted to hold onto that moment forever. Play it over and over in his head.

Everything hurt and he wanted to die. Eddie’s kiss was the best and the worst thing to happen to him. The sweetest punch to the teeth, the kindest bullet to the brain. It was the nail in Richie’s coffin. The one way ticket to Dante’s inferno.

And a part of him, a stupid, dumb, romantic part of him hoped that Eddie would tell him that he liked it. That he liked Richie. That he wanted to run away together. That he was like him.

“You were right, Rich. It is easy. I dunno… I dunno why I was so scared.” Eddie’s gaze didn’t meet his. Richie wondered if he knew. Was it that obvious? Was Richie that easy to read? Why had he kissed him? Why had Richie said yes? He knew how much this would hurt. Maybe he wanted it to. Eddie stepped past him, taking a few steps ahead. Richie followed, tripping over his own feet. He wanted to go home. He wanted to step out in front of a train. He wanted to never let anyone close to him ever again. “Thank you, man. I uh… I owe you. And please don’t tell anyone. Please. You know that people… people will get the wrong idea.”

But it was right. At least for Richie, it would be. And Richie didn’t even know what they talked about on the way back home. It was a blur. Richie just knew that he went to bed and laid in the dark that night, wondering what he had done to deserve this. And wondering how it was possible that he was so young, but already so ruined.


	9. Jaws part1; 1989-1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Richie wished he could go to Boston, Massachusetts, and rescue Eddie from his mother and her boyfriend and ride into the skyline. Where nothing hurt, and nothing mattered, and they were no one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to split this chapter into two parts as it's a doozy. ;ppp

The world didn’t end.

Richie wasn’t dumb. He was dumb in certain ways, but he knew logically that the world wasn’t going to be flung entirely off it’s axis if he ever kissed a boy on the lips. The sun wasn’t made up of the searing heat of desire or anger or shame or guilt that built up inside his ribcage, despite how sometimes it felt that way. He had been told, many times in his life, that the _world doesn’t revolve around you, Richie_. He knew that everything was so much bigger than him. That there were hundreds of millions of people who lived in the U.S.A, billions of people in the world, all with their own problems that were most probably considerably worse than Richie’s. He would often try and reason with himself with that logic – tell himself to get over it. There were people starving, people who were homeless. Hell, he was even better off than some of his own fucking friends. He had everything he could ever need, everything he could ever want. And yet, Richie still felt the way he felt. Richie still felt angry all the time, he still felt frustrated. He resented his parents, he resented his town, he resented the house he lived in, he resented every aspect of himself and who he was. He lived a life many people would want, and he _knew that_ , and yet sometimes he wanted nothing more than to throw it away and end it. Sometimes, Richie’s issues felt like that they were so consuming, so _much_ that there was no way he could ever get out of it all. That the only real option he had was to bite the bullet and bite a goddamn bullet. And in the same vein, those thoughts made him feel that much worse. Because they just proved to himself how selfish and spoilt he was, how stupid he was, how much he took for granted. The world didn’t need more people like Richie in it as it was, and he somehow just kept on getting worse. Not only was he a selfish dickhead who took his life and luxuries for granted, but he was a gross pervert too.

The future was something that terrified Richie. There was a possibility that people would find out at some point; that the horrible secrets he had tried (by that time) for decades to hide away from the world would be thrust into the limelight with all the grace and dignity of a piece of dogshit. That he would become the family shame – the secret, whispered conversation at the dinner table. The unspoken burden on the shoulders of his parents. Sometimes Richie wondered if he would end up like those guys he read about in the true crime novels. The lonely men who hated who they were so much that they became monsters, ripping people apart and devouring them so that they weren’t so alone. The only time he had ever read about homosexuals was in that sort of context; and that terrified him and shook him right down to his very core. He tried to convince himself that there were other people like him in the world. Men like the men in the grocery store, who just lived their lives quietly. That not everybody like him was destined to turn into a werewolf of a man, losing complete touch with their sanity and humanity. That there were plenty of people who were like him who lived alone; unseen, unheard of, dying alone on the floorboards of their run-down houses. By the time they were to be found, their decomposition would have seeped into the cracks of the wood. And that thought also kept him awake at night.

But after Eddie kissed him amongst the trees that late summer afternoon, the world didn’t end in a physical sense – but in a metaphorical way, it _very much did_. Because Richie knew that now, he couldn’t go back from that moment. That it had happened, and that he would be the one to carry that moment with him until he was six-feet-under. Just another secret under his skin, written in the subtext of his every day.

He shouldn’t have said yes, because that had been his first kiss (with a boy).

He shouldn’t have said yes, because now things would change (even if he tried his hardest to make sure they didn’t).

He shouldn’t have said yes, because now Eddie was etched into his very bones (and he wouldn’t be able to remember him without remembering how soft his lips were, how pretty he was, and how Richie had never felt this way in his life and was sure he would never feel this way again).

He shouldn’t have said yes, because kissing pretty boys was the one of the worst things you could ever do.

During the hours of each day, Richie tried his hardest to forget about what happened. He tried to push the memory of it to the very farthest recesses of his brain, tried to tear it up into tiny pieces and lock it away. He tried his hardest to purposefully become fuzzy on the details, to convince himself that something else entirely had happened. He spent time as he sat in front of the TV with his family, mentally constructing elaborate alternative realities.

_He had fallen asleep and had a vivid dream; he had read a comic and gotten carried away in the story; he had merely had a detailed discussion with Eddie over schematics; nothing had happened._

It almost felt like the same process Richie would go through when he was thinking up of excuses and lies to tell his family when he did something shitty, except the only people who knew about the forest incident was Eddie and himself. So, it was as if he was trying to come up with excuses for himself. Like he was trying to manufacture scenarios that he could repeat to himself over and over and over again until they became the truth, and he could forget. He thought that maybe if he thought about it often and hard enough, he would be able to brainwash himself. He could forget about Eddie’s kiss and his lips, and he could forget about the way it made him feel – the way _Eddie_ made him feel. Maybe he would be able to fix himself and make himself normal, and no one would have to know about any of it.

But it wouldn’t work, and Richie _knew_ it wouldn’t work, because he would think about it at night. He would lie in his bed, on his back, staring up at the glow-and-the-dark stars he had stuck to his ceiling. And he would think. He would go over every detail he had memorised. He would play it out moment by moment in his brain. He would dwell on it over and over; the way Eddie’s body had felt close to his. The way he had looked in the moments before the kiss, demure yet determined; the way his lips had felt so perfect on Richie’s, the way he had tasted. It was so flawed with braces and glasses and inexperience. And yet, as much as Richie hated to admit it, he wouldn’t have it any other way. He didn’t want to kiss a random girl that his parents would approve of. He wanted to kiss Eddie. Over, and over, and again, and again, until he was sick from it all (and that would never happen, he was sure of it, down to his bone marrow). And Richie would think about it, and he would think about Eddie. If he was feeling particularly brave, he would even let himself wonder. What would it feel like to kiss Eddie properly? What would it feel like to have their bodies closer, to hold each other? What would it feel like to not be so scared of it all?

He would turn their conversation beforehand over and over and over in his brain like he was churning butter from his words. He would agonise over every word and detail.

_I’ve never had a crush on a girl. It kinda scares me._

_I trust you with my life. I don’t trust anybody in the same way that I trust you. But you need to promise me you won’t hate me, okay? I can’t… I can’t deal with the idea of you hating me. I think I would die, Richie, if you ever hated me._

_I think there’s something wrong. With me._

What did that mean? None of it made sense. But then again, Richie felt like nothing ever made fucking sense.

As far as Eddie was concerned, it was almost as if it hadn’t even happened at all. Richie had expected a change in him – a shift, the same sort of awkwardness that had followed them out of the clubhouse in the wake of Stan’s failed attempt at a bro-chat-about-girls-and-boobs-and-stuff. He expected Eddie to be weird around him, to maybe even tell Richie that it had been a weird thing to do and that they shouldn’t hang out anymore (because that would be the best for the both of them, or whatever). Richie had prepared himself for that slap in the face. He had dreaded it. He didn’t know how he was possibly going to handle the cold, heavy sting of rejection that would stab into his gut. The ‘I told you so’ whispered into his brain cavity. But that didn’t happen. In fact, nothing happened _at all._ Eddie acted as if nothing was amiss, like it was just another day. He didn’t treat Richie any differently the day after the incident, when they hung out with the Losers. Or the entire week after that, really. It made Richie question if it truly had been a fever dream after all. How could Eddie be so calm and collected about it all? He supposed it probably meant more to Richie than it did Eddie; for Eddie, it had just been a passing moment. A practice for the real thing because Richie would never be wanted in that way. And it was a relief, he knew it was, because he wasn’t sure how he was going to handle an awkward Eddie. And an awkward Eddie would be obvious to the Losers, and if the Losers would figure out what had happened, that would be a really _bad thing_.

But it also stung. And it also made Richie frustrated, and angry, and it made him hope that he would ride over a rock on the way home and fly over the handlebars so he could break every single one of his bones.

Richie noticed one thing, though. Eddie was actively finding ways to avoid being completely alone with him. Sure, they’d hang out one-on-one. But even when it was technically a Richie-and-Eddie day of hangs, Eddie would always suggest they chill in the presence of other people. He would suggest they go into town together, or he would suggest that they hang out in areas where their families would be milling about. This felt like a bug under Richie’s skin – or like thousands of them, digging into his muscle tissue. He wasn’t sure if it was him looking too much into things, if Eddie was doing it intentionally or not. He didn’t want to think that he would do that; that Eddie was subtly manipulating the situation and pulling strings from behind the scenes. Richie convinced himself that Eddie wasn’t capable of doing that, that it was just a coincidence. But as the end of Eddie’s stay in Derry drew closer, as did the looming threat and promise of school, Eddie continued with his avoidance. He turned down Richie’s offers and suggestions to hang out in his room, or anywhere where there wouldn’t be any people, and it start to really _fuck with him_. Because why was Eddie doing this? Why was he acting like it wasn’t a big fucking deal, like nothing had happened, and simultaneously refusing to be alone with him? It wasn’t a big deal, but it _was_ , at the same time. Eddie was acting the same, but he _wasn’t_. And it was in a way that only Richie would be able to pick up on, and he couldn’t bring it up, because they were never alone together long enough for that to happen.

It was in the last week of Eddie’s stay when things changed again. Because of course they did. Richie felt like a live wire dangling above a swimming pool. He woke up from a shitty sleep of only a few hours, and would drag himself out of bed, only to have to face the fact that his best friend could very possibly not want to be alone with him. And that felt horrible. It felt like a foot on his sternum or something because he had been trying to do everything right. He had been trying to do what was best for Eddie and his friendship, and yet it had ended up all weird anyway. It made him so frustrated that he had even purposefully punched the brick of his house so hard that it left a dark brand of bruising in his knuckles. It felt like his organs were being constricted by cable ties. Tighter and tighter and tighter, and Eddie was the one tightening them. But he couldn’t know – it wasn’t like he was doing this on purpose, right? Right? _Right_?

“We should hang out at my house today.” Eddie had suggested before Richie could even say good morning. He was standing at Richie’s doorstep, dressed in a pair of too-big dark-blue jean overalls and a navy and white striped long-sleeved t-shirt. “I have a cool movie we can watch, and I have money for pizza.”

Richie didn’t want pizza, and he didn’t care for a movie. He didn’t think he could manage to sit through a fucking movie. But what else were they going to do? Richie didn’t want to stay at his place with Eddie, his parents going about their everyday lives as the constant paranoia that he would do something that would _clue them in_ clawed at his airways. And he didn’t want to go to town, where he was reminded that he didn’t _belong_ there, because he never did and never would. And he didn’t want to be around Mrs. S, because there was this weird sense of guilt he would feel around her now. Knowing that she had only ever been lovely to Richie, that she was a good woman with a good heart, and he had kissed her grandson in the forest under the pretence that it would ‘help him practice’ when in reality he wanted to, he wanted to, he wanted to. And he would do it again. There was something deeply, unequivocally wrong with him. _I’m fucked in the head, Mrs. S. I’m sorry for this, I really am. I’ve made such a mess of this! I’ve made such a mess. Your grandson is the prettiest boy I’ve ever seen, and I’ve ruined him forever._

“Yeah, okay.” Richie almost forgot to mumble his agreement as he toed on his shoes, not even bothering with the fraying laces. He closed the door behind him. He didn’t have anything else to say as he followed Eddie in silence across the street. He noticed Eddie was fiddling with his nails like he did when he was nervous, and he wondered if that was because he was scared of Richie.

Was this what this was?

Did he know?

Mrs. S house was always quiet and calm, especially in comparison to the Tozier household. Richie kept his ratty sneakers on as he stepped into the now familiar environment of doilies and porcelain. He closed the door behind him, hearing the lock click into place.

“Where’s Mrs. S? I think I gotta return something to her from my ma, but I forgot it. I can go grab it now. I think it’s like… a pastry tin or something.” Richie suggested lamely as he watched Eddie walk through towards the kitchen, his steps silent as he had slipped out of his shoes at the doorway. Richie hated how he couldn’t hate him, because he wanted to.

“She’s out for today.” Eddie answered without turning to look at Richie, instead picking up the flyer he had obviously placed there earlier from the local pizza place. Richie’s stomach jumped and churned, and he felt rooted in place for a second.

What?

What?

They were alone.

Had it been in his head? Had he just been making it all up?

“When is she coming back?” Richie’s voice came out in a weird croak, and Eddie looked over at him. He had a look on his face that Richie didn’t really recognise all too well, like his eyes were trying to read something on Richie’s face and body. Like he was searching for answers, and Richie wasn’t sure he had them.

“A lot later. This evening. C’mon, you planning on running out the door or something? You want the usual shit, right?” Eddie answered nonchalantly, and Richie blinked from behind his glasses. He felt so confused he felt disorientated, dizzy with the confusion of it all. He didn’t understand. He didn’t understand. He didn’t--

“Uh… yeah, yeah. The usual shit.” Richie muttered awkwardly as he walked further into the house. He felt like his limbs were weighed down with every step, like he was walking underwater or in a bad dream.

“Go sit down, I’ll call up and order.” Eddie instructed bossily, and Richie was so mixed up he didn’t know how to respond. So he just did exactly what he was told, taking a heavy seat on the sofa and exhaling what felt like every ounce of air from his lungs. His heart was hammering in his chest. He felt as if one weight was being lifted from his shoulders, only to be replaced by another. Did it ever fucking stop?

He could hear Eddie’s voice from the kitchen, expertly ordering their usual. He could recite Eddie’s order by memory and by heart – could dictate the exact way he said it, down to the syllable. He wondered if Eddie could do the same, or if it was another thing Richie did and felt that wasn’t reciprocated. There were so many things that Richie felt were things he did because he was _himself_ , and because he liked Eddie a whole lot more than Eddie liked him, that he knew weren’t normal. Richie was bad at remembering things as a general rule, but when it came to Eddie, it was like he was some sort of sponge. Absorbing every detail he possibly could about the boy, memorising it to the point where he knew it was abnormal. He wondered if he would ever be able to forget about somebody like that. Part of him hoped he wouldn’t ever forget Eddie. Part of him hoped he would.

“Should be here in 20. Hopefully they don’t fuck up my order again this time. Otherwise you’ll have two pizzas and I’ll heat something up for myself.” Eddie’s voice startled Richie as he seemed to suddenly appear in the general vicinity of the lounge room. Richie looked at Eddie, the legs of his overalls had to be rolled up at the cuffs because of the way he swam in the denim. He had two cans of soda in his hands, obviously having been chilled in Mrs. S.’ fridge. Richie wondered if he had gone out of his way to buy the drinks for the both of them or if he had bought cans of soda for himself. Eddie went ahead and placed them atop of two coasters on the coffee table before he walked over to the television set and picked up a VHS.

“I am _not_ watching Dirty Dancing.” Richie declared loudly as he caught a glimpse of the recognisable cover. “My mom and sister love that movie, and I’ve seen it more times than I can fucking count, and I’d rather fucking die than watch that bullshit again. I bet I could even do their stupid dances by memory. I’d rather watch _anything else_ , Eddie, I swear to God. On what planet is that considered a _cool movie_ , are you _retarded_ —?”

“Shut the fuck _up_ , God. It’s not Dirty Dancing, dickface.” Eddie rolled his eyes as he popped the VHS case open, pulling out the videotape. “It’s Jaws. I just put it in this cover so my babcia wouldn’t freak out about it. The actual cover is in my room.” Richie shut up, his eyebrows raising. He hadn’t seen Jaws before, but that was besides the point. He had never ever considered Eddie to be the type to do something like that. To plan ahead and work out a way to get what it was he wanted. That was a Richie thing to do, not something a _nice boy_ like Eddie would do. “What? Have you seen Jaws?”

“Uh— _no_ , no. Sorry. I’m kinda out of it today, sorry, Eduardo. Nah, Jaws is cool.” Richie knew he was acting weird. He knew he was acting _so weird_ , but could Eddie really blame him? His brain felt like a billion wires all tangled up in a fucking mess, criss-crossing all over each other. Every time he tried to untangle them it would just get worse and tighter. Eddie looked at him for a second, another weird look, before he hummed and turned around, popping the VHS into the player. He grabbed the remote and collapsed against the sofa beside Richie, starting to fiddle with the control. Richie could feel his palms start to sweat as he sat there, rigid with nerves, his brain going a thousand miles an hour.

Richie didn’t even move as the opening sequence to the film started. Eddie got comfortable beside him, crossing his legs and leaning against the arm of the sofa. Richie tried to keep his gaze focused on the film but he couldn’t concentrate for the life of him. Not with Eddie so close, and he looked so cute in his outfit, and he wondered if Eddie had even thought about their kiss at all. He wondered if he would ever kiss somebody again. Why were they alone now? Why had Eddie been so adamant on never being alone with Richie, only for it to change? Had Richie been the one to ruin Eddie, to stop him from being such a nice boy?

 _Of course he had._ Richie ruined everything he fucking touched, everything he loved. He was a _serial-ruiner_.

They stayed like that until the pizza came, to which Eddie got up hurriedly to answer the door. Richie hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t made stupid comments about the movie, nor had he even cared enough to keep track of what was happening. He knew it was supposed to be a horror, but his attention was on a million other things that seemed a lot more important than some rouge shark doing shark things. Like how much he hated the fact that Eddie made his heart beat like it did. Like how much he hated how even after all of this, he still craved closeness and companionship from Eddie. _It hurt, it hurt, it hurt._ It hurt so much that Richie felt sick, and he didn’t even want to touch his pizza. Instead, he watched the way Eddie folded up his piece as he always did and took a hearty bite from it, his big doe eyes glued on the screen in front of him. And Richie wondered if he knew how much this hurt him, or if Eddie was always just so blissfully unaware.

It was only ten or so minutes after the arrival of the pizza when it happened. It happened suddenly but slowly, another case of _it’s not a big deal_. And Richie was almost convinced that it wasn’t a big deal, and that he was making a mountain out of a mole hill. That it was a big deal to him because he was an idiotic creep who looked into things, and looked at things, in a way that they didn’t need to be. And they’d always been close, and Eddie was his best friend, and he always had been. And before Richie had discovered the awful truth about himself, stuff like this wasn’t weird and he’d never thought twice about it. But it was different now. And it was because of him. Eddie had wanted things to not be weird, and Richie didn’t want them to be weird, but why couldn’t he shake the feeling that made his gut swoop and his chest ache?

Eddie had eaten some of his pizza, but over half remained. And Richie had picked at his, and he didn’t want to be rude and not eat, but he thought that if he ate he would be sick. He expected Eddie to comment on it, but he didn’t. No, instead, he scooted closer to Richie on the sofa until he could feel their thighs touching.

“You know, I kinda feel like this movie is too harsh on the shark. The humans are literally trespassing in his home, and then they’re getting upset that he hurts them? It’s his home, they don’t even belong there in the first place.” Eddie was monologuing his stream of consciousness, and Richie mumbled an affirmative, more fixated on what Eddie was doing. Eddie pushed up one of Richie’s stiff arms, ducking underneath it. One of Eddie’s legs casually draped atop Richie’s, his cheek resting against Richie’s shoulder. He placed a small hand in the middle of Richie’s sternum. Richie felt like a fucking statue, frozen in place. He was sure Eddie could feel his heart hammering against his ribs, could feel how tense he was under his touch. His body felt hot and twitchy, but he could barely remember how to breathe like a normal human being. What was Eddie doing? What the fuck was happening? How was he supposed to respond to this? Did guys do this? Richie had never done this sort of thing with any of his other friends. Was he supposed to be?

“Richie,” Eddie said softly, and he could feel his breath dust over his skin. Goosebumps erupted across his arms, even though he felt like he was drenched in sweat. “Richie, is this okay? I can stop if this isn’t okay.”

Was it okay? Yes? No? Richie didn’t know. He didn’t know. He didn’t know what any of this meant. He swallowed, his eyes focusing in on the animatronic shark that he knew was supposed to scare the shit out of him. He wished the shark would just jump out of the television screen and swallow him whole, right there and then. Cover the entire room with his blood and insides.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s okay, Eddie.” Richie’s voice didn’t even sound or feel like his own. He said it before he could stop himself, before he could talk himself out of it. Eddie hummed, a sound that sounded similar to that of a cat purring and pulled himself up closer to Richie. He could feel the flutter of his eyelashes, like butterfly kisses against his skin. The soft heat of every puff of breath, the slight shifting when he was getting more comfortable.

“I like being close to you.” Eddie whispered, and Richie wasn’t even sure if he was supposed to hear. He wasn’t even sure if he had heard it correctly. So he didn’t say a thing – instead, he let Eddie tuck his head beneath his chin, and he tried to memorise how it felt to feel like this was okay, and that he was safe from the world and from himself. And he memorised the way Eddie’s body felt, a comforting weight and warmth, the way his hair smelt, the way he breathed, the way his heart beat. Just so when he was alone, he wouldn’t turn into a werewolf, and he would have something to think about as he would lie against the wooden floorboards as an old lonely man the world had left behind.

*

For some reason, part of Richie expected Eddie to stay. He expected Eddie to decide that he didn’t want to go back to Massachusetts. There was nothing for him there. Richie couldn’t understand why he would go back at all when he had such a nice life in Derry. Sure, a small town in Maine didn’t hold up too well in comparison to city life in Boston (although Richie wasn’t entirely sure if Eddie lived in the city or not). But when he would come down in the summers, he got to experience life as it should be. With a loving parental or grand-parental figure who didn’t try to suffocate the life out of every pore in his body; with friends like the Losers who were so easy to hang around with and accepted him how he was. Despite the fact that Derry was just a blip on the map, there was a better life here for Eddie than there ever would be in Boston. Richie knew this, and he knew Eddie knew this too. And yet, Eddie still got into that vermillion red car (Richie hated that car, and he hated what it stood for, and he wished he would never see that car again in his life) and disappeared. Out of Derry, out of communication, out of thin air. And once again Richie was left behind in Derry, expected to continue on with his life as if nothing had happened. As far as everybody else was concerned, nothing _had_ happened. No one had any idea about the kiss, or the fact that in the last few days before Eddie’s departure, he had cuddled into Richie. It wasn’t the sort of cuddling that Richie had ever done with his mom. It wasn’t the sort of casual touch of the limb, a drape of the legs. Sure, Richie and Eddie had always been quite touchy-feely growing up, as kids usually were. But Richie knew that at 12, it was normal for boys to grow out of that. But instead, Eddie had only gotten closer. He had wound his arms around Richie, hid his face against his neck, rested his hands on his chest. He knew Eddie could feel his heart race. And he knew Eddie could feel the way Richie’s breath would stutter. But Eddie never said a word. Neither of them did. If they didn’t talk about it, it wasn’t a big deal. Just more practice for Eddie, more salt in the wound for Richie.

And maybe that was the reason Eddie didn’t come back the next summer.

Richie had been arguing with his parents for weeks over the prospect of being sent to summer camp, as the thought of missing Eddie’s annual visit caused him more anxiety and stress than he could deal with. The whole reason Richie’s parents wanted to send him to summer camp in the first place was because he was 13 years old and already becoming more than they could handle. Maggie had thought that maybe a Christian youth camp would be the solution to their problems, but Richie outright refused to go. He had begun to refuse to go to any sort of church related activity, with the exception of the bake-sales and markets in which he could spend his chore-earned pocket money. But as far as his parents were concerned, his aversion towards anything Jesus-y was very sudden and of very deep concern. The topic of church summer camp ended up causing much more trouble than it was worth, so Richie did not go. And he waited for Eddie instead, sitting on his porch step for the first week in the sweltering and unwavering sun, his eyes trained on the distorted heat rising from the tarmac in the distance and waiting for the familiar omen of a car that he sometimes saw in his dreams (a lot). He would wait, and he would pick at the scabs on his knees, and dig his fingers into the bruises on his legs, and he would see how close he could get his fingertips to the flame of his zippo until he did burn himself on accident (but was it really, if he knew what he was doing all along?). But a week passed, and Eddie didn’t come. Eddie never came. And for the next few months Richie tried to understand why. What had gone wrong. Was it him? Had he been the reason? Was it the moment in the forest? Was Eddie sick? Was Eddie dead?

Maggie assured him, towards the end of that summer break, that Eddie was okay. And that he may come back next year, and that things were complicated in Boston right now. Richie wanted to know what was so complicated that Eddie couldn’t leave, or call, or write. And if Eddie liked him so much, if Eddie was his best friend, why didn’t he? How did his mom even know that things were okay with Eddie? How did Mrs. S know? Richie could feel the bitterness inside of him, a dark toxicity that had started to grow and manifest in his bones for years and years, spread deeper into him. What was the point of telling himself to hang on until summer, until he could see Eddie again, if he wouldn’t come? What if he never came back? What if that was it – and Richie was left with only questions and memories, wondering what had happened and if he had been the one to ruin it?

*

The only time Eddie ever called, and the only time Richie got any first-hand confirmation that he was alive and hadn’t decided he wanted nothing to do with his time in Derry, was four months after that empty summer. Richie was supposed to be doing homework, but he had never been too good at that. Instead, he was wasting away his time on his new gameboy. He was chewing gum that had long since lost it’s kick, listening to the Red Hot Chilli Peppers (a band his mother insisted played the devil’s sound) when there was a sharp knock on the door.

“What do you want?” Richie called over the music, his gaze unmoving from the game of Tetris in front of him.

“There’s someone…on… for you!” Richie could barely hear Maggie through the door and over Anthony Kiedis’ vocals.

“What?! I can’t hear you!” Richie yelled in clear irritation, pausing his game as his mother opened the bedroom door and let herself in. She huffed and frowned, making a point of turning down the ‘racket’ (as she would later describe it) and holding up the phone in her hand.

“Don’t have this up so loud. You know I hate this music, it gives me a headache. You’re going to damage your ears, Richard.” She scolded, and Richie grunted in response, offering up a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders. “Anyway. It’s for you. Dinner will be ready in an hour – make sure you get that algebra project done before bedtime.”

“Yes mom, Jesus Christ. Can you go?” Richie scowled, pushing himself up from his bed enough to grab the home phone from her hand. She shook her head as she left, taking some dirty mugs that had probably been sitting out for a week or so in Richie’s room as she went.

“Sup, Richie-Rich, what’s the sitch bitch?” Richie tucked the phone between his shoulder and chin as he unpaused his game of Tetris, resuming his evening plans of doing nothing in the fucking slightest as he neglected his responsibilities.

“Richie?”

Eddie’s voice caught him off guard. So off guard that Richie cursed as he dropped the phone and lost the game of Tetris he had been working on for an hour or so now. He dropped his gameboy in his lap, sitting up against the pillows of his bed. His heart was in his throat, beating like a hummingbird’s wings. It had been over a year since he had felt anything like this. He had forgotten how just Eddie’s voice made his body go into some weird sort of hyperdrive. “Richie, are you there?”

“Eddie? Is that you, dude? Yeah— yeah, I’m here.” Richie sat straight up, his whole body overly tense as he stared at his superhero bed covers as if they held any of the answers he needed. His mouth was dry, no matter how hard he tried to swallow.

“Yeah. It’s me,” Eddie breathed. He sounded like he was whispering, like he was on edge. Richie leaned over and turned down his music, pushing the phone so hard against his ear it hurt.

“Eds, what the fuck? Where are you? You didn’t come to Derry this summer, what the fuck was that? Dude, I waited for you. Is it your mom? Why haven’t you written or called? Why are you calling now? Why have you never called? Eddie, what the fuck—"

“I’m sorry, Rich. I wanted to come this year. I did. I was— I was supposed to come, I was packed and everything. But— I couldn’t. I’m sorry. I really am. That’s why I’m calling, because I wanted to talk to you. I needed to talk to you and to explain. I wanted to come to Derry more than anything. I miss you, I miss the Losers, I miss my babcia so much. I was _supposed to_ — fuck.” Eddie cursed, and Richie heard a rustling noise. Eddie’s breaths were rushed and short, and Richie’s fingers tightened their grip. He had a cold feeling of dread in his bones, settling like lead feathers on his skeletal system. “It’s all… It’s all because of my mom. She doesn’t _let me_ write or call you, I’ve been trying and begging every year. She doesn’t let me use the phone. She’s asleep now, so I could call you. Your mom wrote your number down for me and I’ve kept it safe this whole time.”

Richie felt his eyes widen. He didn’t know what to say. His brain felt empty, only occupied instead with static. “I needed to call you because she won’t let me— Richie, it’s— It’s getting _bad_. I mean, _worse_. I want to come to Derry so bad. Richie? Are you there?”

“Yeah, of course I’m… Eddie, what’s going on? Tell me what’s going on, what do you mean?” Richie felt panic rise into his eyes, his whole body flushing with hot and cold. He didn’t know what to do. He had no idea what to do.

“I— I… I can’t tell you. But I… I want to see you. I want to leave it here. I hate it here, Richie. I hate it so much. I don’t feel… my mom, she… she won’t let me go. She says I’m too sick to go but I don’t think I am sick, Richie. Not like that. I don’t think I’ve been sick for a long time. But she says I’m so sick, and she makes me— she makes me take this _medication_ , Richie. And she has this new boyfriend, and I _hate him_ so much. I want to leave— I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Richie knew Eddie was crying on the other end of the phone, his breathing irregular and wheezy with obvious panic. Richie sat like a statue on his mattress, staring at nothing until his vision became blurry and distorted. He felt so tightly wound up that he was going to snap at any moment, his breathing shallow as fear raced through his veins.

“Eddie, Eds. Eds, slow down. What’s your address? What do you mean? What is she doing? Why can’t you leave? Why do you hate her boyfriend? Will he help you? Are you safe? Eddie, are you _safe there_? Would she hurt you?” Richie’s hand hurt with the intensity of which he was holding the phone, his throat burning with the need to cry, his body trembling. There was a muffled hiccup of a cry on the other end of the line, a pause only accentuated with sniffles.

“I don’t—I don’t know. I don’t know, I don’t know, I just want to _go_.” Eddie’s voice was hoarse, and Richie could tell he was struggling to keep his volume down to the minimum.

“Eddie, what’s your address? I’ll—” Richie grabbed a piece of paper and a pen. “I’ll write it down, I’ll come get you _myself_ if I fucking have to. Fuck this shit. Fuck that _bitch_. I’m gonna come take you to Derry my-fucking-self.”

“Um—my address is 27—” Eddie cut himself off. There was a silence so deep Richie was sure it had the capability to rip a hole into space and time itself.

“Eddie? 27 _what_? Eddie?” Richie breathed. There was a loud rustle, a muffled voice. Eddie’s voice, but he couldn’t understand what he was saying. “Eddie?”

“I have to go. I’m sorry for calling you at this time, babcia. _Dobranoc_.” Richie’s ear was met with the shrill beep of the phone line cutting off. He blinked, looking at the phone in his shaky hands, at the hastily scribbled 27 on the ripped off notepad paper on his leg. He didn’t know what to think. He didn’t know what to feel. Should he tell somebody? Was he supposed to? Was he supposed to say something? Eddie was terrified and so upset. Was it any of his business to say anything about it to his parents or Mrs. S? Or would Eddie get upset that he betrayed his trust like that?

Richie felt his stomach churn, bile rising in his throat, the acidity burning his oesophagus. With trembling fingers, he tried to use the last call-return feature Ben had talked to him about recently. The call went through and began to ring, Richie’s heartbeat audible in his ears, pulsating in his jaw.

“Hello?” The voice was familiar, but it wasn’t Eddie’s. Richie was silent, barely able to breathe. He felt anger building up inside of him, brick by brick, until it became a swirling inferno inside of his body. “Who is this? Hello? Is that you, Magdalena? You leave my Eddie alone do you hear me? You’re making him _worse_. You’re going to _ruin him_ do you understand me? He is _my_ child, and I can raise him however I want. I don’t give a fuck what Frank wanted. Frank’s gone but I’m still here, and Eddie is _my child_. Not yours, not Frank’s, not anybody else’s. You don’t understand his needs. He’s come back from that shithole of a town you live in all messed up, like he always does. Do you know how long it takes me to fix the damage you have caused him? You let him run around like an animal with those feral street kids, contracting all sorts of diseases—”

Richie hung up, staring at the phone as the familiar dial tone pierced through the quiet music still coming from his cd player. He slowly laid down on his mattress, the phone laying on his chest as he stared up towards the ceiling. He stayed like that for ages, until he couldn’t feel his limbs. He hoped Eddie would call. That it was just a joke. Because if it was a joke, Richie would know how to respond. If it was a joke, Richie could laugh it off and forget it had ever happened. If it was a joke, Richie had no reason to feel scared and useless and small and confused. He didn’t even move as his mom called him down for dinner, waiting for a call he knew would never come. Because Eddie never called. And he never wrote. And Richie wished he could go to Boston, Massachusetts, and rescue Eddie from his mother and her boyfriend and ride into the skyline. Where nothing hurt, and nothing mattered, and they were no one.


	10. Jaws part 2; 1989-1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Time was torpedoing towards summer break; another summer break Richie just knew would be void of Kaspbrak, therefore missing what Richie had always looked forward to the most. Without Eddie, summer was just a gap in time. A void of heat that Richie fell into, moving slowly through time like he was a bug in honey. It was days and days of wasted time, of too much time to think. And thinking was something Richie did too much.

Richie tried to talk about the phone call with his mother. He tried to tell her about what Eddie had said, and how worried and scared Richie was for his wellbeing. He had stood against the kitchen counter like he had a countless amount of times as a small child, murmuring clumsy explanations of things he could never find the right words to explain. He had not talked to his mom about his feelings, or anything really, for a long time. And he had no intentions to because there were so many parts of him that he never wanted her to know about. But this was _different._ This was _Eddie_ , and Richie knew there was nothing he could do on his own. He was only twelve, and he had no money or car, so he had no way to get to Boston. And even if he did, he had no way to find out where Eddie lived. He had hoped that maybe by talking to his mom about the issue and his concerns for Eddie’s welfare that they could figure out a way to get to him and take him out of that situation. Richie had explained to her in rapid-fire sentences that he was happy to give up his bedroom for Eddie, that he would pay her back for any of the costs associated with the venture, and that they just _needed to_ because Eddie wasn’t safe and Richie was sure that something bad was going to happen. And to Maggie’s credit, she listened to everything he had to say and gave him her entire, undivided attention. She explained gently to Richie that there wasn’t anything they could really do. That they couldn’t go to Boston to get Eddie because that would be breaking the law. That she could talk to Mrs S about it all, but that it always had been a messy and complicated situation that they weren’t supposed to get involved in. Richie felt frustration and despair hit him in a way that felt like a blow to the stomach with a sledgehammer. It hit him so hard he had to grab onto the edge of the ledge of their imitation marble counter as his knees threatened to buckle.

“That’s so fucking stupid, mom.” Richie’s voice had been thick and ragged with emotion as he tried to swallow down the feelings that felt like gaping wounds in his chest. “That’s so _fucking stupid_. I just want him to be okay. I want him to be safe. I hate his stupid fucking mom and I hope she fucking _dies_.” On any other occasion, Maggie would have told Richie off for his language. She would’ve scolded him for wishing death upon someone and probably would have grounded him for a week or two. But instead, Maggie just held him. She held him to her body – even though Richie was taller than her now – as he cried. He cried until his throat was raw, until he completely exhausted himself and couldn’t cry anymore. And his mom just let him cry as she cradled her only son in her arms, murmuring soft assurances that Eddie would be okay; that _everything_ would be okay no matter what. She didn’t ask any questions, even when Richie told her through his jagged sobs that things were _never going to be okay_ , and that no one _understood_. Richie had no idea how long they stood in the kitchen like that. Richie thought that the law was supposed to help them, and that it was supposed to stop bad people from doing bad things. But in this case, the law was helping it happen again and again and again. Richie wished he wasn’t twelve because he would become a criminal for Eddie in a goddamn heartbeat.

Maggie never brought that moment up again. Richie was grateful for that, because the very idea that he had gotten so worked up and upset about Eddie’s situation that he had cried (to the point of near retching) was humiliating. He had been wary that she would ask questions; Richie had never in his life gotten so upset about anything to do with a friend. He almost expected her to ask _why Eddie_ of all people, and Richie knew that was a very valid question for her to have. But that conversation never came. Instead, in a way that felt almost like a cold sort of betrayal, Richie’s life continued on.

He didn’t hear from Eddie. And he wished he could say that for the next year, Eddie faded into the background of his life. But that would be a lie. He thought about Eddie every day. He thought about every summer they had spent together up to that point, about his first kiss and the way Eddie had held him close like Richie had never been held before, about the phone call. He thought about the phone call a lot. He even told Beverly about it once, as they were smoking cigarettes in the school parking lot. And she had told him, with no hesitation in her voice, that Eddie’s mom was the one who was sick. That his mom had the same sickness that her own dad had that made them bad people who hurt their children because they were hurting too. And that it wasn’t as easy as just getting away from a parent like that, because sometimes children still loved them even though they hurt them. Richie sort of understood, because he still loved his parents even though he knew they hated what he secretly was; but he also knew that Eddie and Beverly lived in completely different situations. Beverly didn’t talk much about what was going on at home – not to Richie at least. She was tight lipped about it all, like Eddie always had been whenever Richie had tried to pry information out of him. Only after years upon years of knowing one another did Eddie finally start to tell Richie things, crescendoing into the phone call that still made Richie’s blood run ice cold. Sure, Richie’s parents hated gay people. But they didn’t know Richie was gay, so they didn’t treat him badly. And from what Richie had observed and heard, the way Beverly and Eddie’s parents treated them infuriated Richie right down into the depths of his very core. He wished there were something he could do. But, as seemed to be a common trend within Richie’s life, there was nothing to be done.

***

A lot happened in the year of 1990. Maybe it was because it was the turn of the decade. Maybe it was because Richie was fourteen, and fourteen was never a good age to be regardless of year. But for whatever reason it may have been, the year was one Richie just _knew_ he wouldn’t ever forget from the moment the clock struck 12 on NYE. There was something about the air that changed. An almost electric charge, a clairvoyance that something was going to _happen_. And Richie held onto that feeling, the bristling at the back of his neck, tossing and turning with it to try and understand what it meant. The first few months of the year passed in their usual incoherent blur as Richie lived his chaotic day-to-day and the lingering feeling only grew and grew.

In July, Richie had been speeding down the street on his beat-up hand-me-down bike and had hit a pothole that he had _known about for years_ and yet always managed to forget about. He had flown over the tops of his handlebars and gotten a mouthful of tarmac and rocks, chipping one of his two front teeth in the process. He had walked away with surprisingly minor injuries. Sure, he was scraped up all over, and he had bust his chin and lip. But he was pretty relieved that he hadn’t cracked his head open or knocked a bunch of his teeth out or broken a _bone_ or—

_Huh._

For the most part, Richie had settled on the conclusion that he wouldn’t see Eddie again. He wasn’t sure exactly why. Maybe it was a way to protect himself; though he wasn’t exactly sure what he was protecting himself _from._ Months had passed since Eddie’s phone call, which had been the last point of contact with Richie throughout the entire two years. Richie felt like he had become an entirely different person during that time in some ways, but in others, he still felt as if he was the same kid Eddie had met in 1986; just trapped in a much, much larger body. He could remember the last summer like it had just ended yesterday, and all the raw emotion that came with it. And he missed Eddie. He had missed him since he had left for Massachusetts, since he had hung up that panicked phone-call and once more returned into the obscurity that was life outside of the sleepy small town in Maine. He had missed him, but he had told himself Eddie wasn’t coming back. Because he couldn’t. And maybe he didn’t even want to. And Richie wouldn’t blame him. He wouldn’t blame him a single bit.

He had thought that maybe the foreboding feeling, that deep-lingering anxiety that had settled in his skeleton would dissipate after he had chipped his tooth and narrowly avoided becoming one of Eddie’s fear-mongering statistics. And it had, for a day or so, before it returned with a vengeance. Time was torpedoing towards summer break; another summer break Richie just _knew_ would be void of Kaspbrak, therefore missing what Richie had always looked forward to the most. Without Eddie, summer was just a gap in time. A void of heat that Richie fell into, moving slowly through time like he was a bug in honey. It was days and days of wasted time, of too much time _to think_. And thinking was something Richie did too much.

 _And maybe that wasn’t particularly a bad thing_ , Richie would think to himself. Maybe it was for the best, despite how much it hurt him, that Eddie wasn’t going to come back. Sure, he knew he was going to spend a lot of his time thinking about Eddie. But then again, he did that already all the time as it was. Only during the summer, he wouldn’t have to go to school – he would be able to lie on his mattress, or chain-smoke cigarettes and share (or not share) a bottle of Jack with Beverly, or listen to his old cassettes in the clubhouse as his friends went about themselves, and do that very same thing. Think about Eddie. Quietly, a lot of the time. Loudly, sometimes, when he was with Beverly. Because Beverly understood a lot, and Richie knew that she was one of the only people who _just got it_. He would tell her things sometimes, and other times he wouldn’t tell her – but she would just know. And Richie loved that about her, as much as he thought he could ever love a girl.

But he would think about Eddie a lot. He found him wondering about him. Simple things, like how he was doing. If his mom was still the way she was then, now. If things were better. If he had grown to hate Richie, to hate Derry. If he had grown. Richie’s memories of Eddie were outdated – a twelve-year-old Eddie who was on the brink of pubescence, who had only just begun to fill out a little in the shoulders. He wondered if he had gotten any taller. If he still dressed the same. If he still had those beautiful freckles on his slightly tan skin. If he still had those brilliantly white teeth and soft pink lips, and if he still had the gentlest touch that Richie was sure he had ever felt. If he was still warm, if he still smelt good. Could he still tuck his head beneath Richie’s chin? Did he still like Jaws? Was he even Eddie, really, at all? The Eddie Richie knew like the back of his hand, even after the two years apart?

Two years, had it really been that long? _How had it been so long?_

He would kill just to hear his voice. Or see his face. Or his smile.

He dreamt about Eddie too. Sometimes the dreams were memories, and sometimes they were inspired by real memories. They often felt so real that Richie was sure he had somehow managed to travel back in time – but he would always wake up just before his alarm clock, realisation sinking in. It was 1990. He was fourteen, about to start high school, and he hadn’t seen Eddie in two years.

The prospect of high school was one that didn’t bother Richie nearly as much as he figured it ought to. Most of his classmates were abuzz with the idea of moving on to the next stage of their life – full of a buzzing anxiety that left them chattering endlessly. Richie could not care less. It was still school. It would still make him want to cave his skull in – and he would be going to the local high school, with the same kids. He would still be forced to go every day and would still have to navigate as efficiently as he could to avoid the Bowers’ clique of delinquents. He had bigger things to worry about beyond the idea of school and _dances_ and _the prom_ and _colleges_. He wasn’t going to go to the dances, or the prom. Why would he? And college was something he hadn’t considered _._ He was almost jealous of all the kids whose biggest concerns laid within their next few years. About whether their crushes would notice them, or if they would be popular, or if they would be able to get the right prom dress when the time came. They didn’t need to worry about hiding parts of them away from the world. They didn’t need to live in that constant paralysing fear, and shame, and self-hatred.

Why would he care about dances or prom? He didn’t _want_ to go, because who would he ask?

Why would he care about crushes, or being popular? His feelings would _always be unrequited_ , and he was _born_ to be a loser.

Why would he think about college when he was sure he was going to be dead? _There was nothing more for him here. The world was not made for him_. _Coffins, however, could be._

And despite knowing full well who and what he was, and that ultimately it didn’t matter because secrets were seldom able to be kept forever, Richie still tried his damned hardest to continue hiding in plain sight. He would still have the loudest laughs in the room; still make the most jokes, even if they were bad; still boast about imaginary sexual conquests; still pretend like he was just like everybody else. That he didn’t have a collection of Playgirl magazines (as well as some random hobby magazines with guys on them that made Richie feel hot under the collar) under his mattress; that he didn’t look at guys and want to touch them all over; that he didn’t manage to find and steal a gay porno, only have to build up his courage for a week before he popped it into the vhs player whilst his family was out for the day (and Richie watched it, and he _hated himself,_ and he _hated how it made him feel_ , but he watched it again and again until the guilt eating him up inside caused him to throw it into a trashcan on the other side of town). That his first kiss hadn’t been with Eddie Kaspbrak, a kid that no one even really knew, a hypochondriac from Massachusetts that haunted Richie like a goddamn poltergeist. But even despite his efforts, Richie still felt as if the truth was always a little too near to the surface. That it could come to light at any moment. That somehow, trees would learn how to talk.

So, Richie got a girlfriend.

Or more accurately, a girl approached Richie, and it sort of started from there.

She was nice enough. In fact, she was really goddamn nice. Too nice for a guy like Richie, and too nice to be kept around as a way to keep people off his scent (Beverly had essential told him as much, too). She was shorter than Richie (which wasn’t too hard), with long brown hair to her waist and big, brown doe eyes. She looked like she could be a sister or cousin to Eddie, though her personality was way off the mark. But those stupidly big eyes, and the dark chestnut of her hair, made it so Richie thought she was a little bit prettier than the other girls in Derry. Her name was Marie. Audrey-Marie, but she preferred Marie. She lived in some of the new houses near the outskirts of town and was best friends with Natasha (the girl with the big boobs Stan had seen move in two years prior).

And she was way too good for Richie.

They had absolutely nothing in common. She laughed at his jokes, though Richie wasn’t sure she got all of them. And she would politely chuckle at his voices, though he knew they annoyed her and probably embarrassed her in public. Richie wasn’t even sure why she liked Richie all that much – she had an easy pick of any guy in their class, and yet she had settled on him. He had been pretty sure it had been a joke or something, or that she would get tired of him after a few days and dump him like the trash he was. But Marie stuck around. She stuck around for months, and Richie just accepted it. It wasn’t like he didn’t _like_ Marie. No, she was great. Genuinely, she was friendly, and bubbly, and positive and kind. But she was just not… well. There wasn’t anything there for him. No spark, no particular fondness, no warmth, no butterflies, no brain-static. Being with Marie was like going through the motions and ticking off the boxes.

Would he take her out on dates? _Yes_.

Would he hold her hand in public? _Yes_.

Had he kissed her? _Yes_. Once, or twice, and it had been unenjoyable at best, though Marie had reacted to the whole affair as if she was a lovesick puppy; all fluttery eyelashes and pink cheeks and starry eyed. And Richie felt something akin to grossed-out when he looked at her, and wanted to wipe his lips, and he couldn’t help but remember how kissing Eddie had felt. He wondered if kissing anybody would ever feel that way again.

Richie felt like he was living a double life. On one hand, he was dating Marie, much to his mother’s absolute delight (she loved Marie, and she got along with her, and she invited her around all the time, and Richie _hatehatehated it_ ). On the other, he actively avoided looking too long at celebrity gossip magazines as there was a chance he would see Matt Dillon, or Rob Lowe, or Tom Cruise, or Johnny Depp, or a bunch of other men who always made his face hot and his blood feel too thick for his veins. Sometimes, he wanted to buy those magazines and hoard them to himself in secret, so he could stare at them on occasion and let himself just _look_ without the crippling fear of getting caught. Richie figured that having a girlfriend would help with easing that feeling of paranoia and anxiety that people would find out and that he would get caught. But it didn’t – it only made him feel that much worse. It only really made him miserable because it all felt so deeply wrong, yet he knew _he_ was what was so deeply wrong. He could have a pretty girlfriend who everybody liked and was so nice it made him sick. He could go through the expected motions and do everything right. But in the end, when it really came down to it, he would still be all messed up. He would still feel nothing except irritation and anger and disgust or nothing at all.

Marie didn’t deserve a single second of it. Richie should have ended it within a few days, or just turned her down the second she approached him. But if Richie was anything, he was selfish. And while he knew what he was doing was unquestionably wrong and unethical, he didn’t stop it because it _did_ stop people from asking questions. Marie didn’t even ask questions – in fact, she had commented plenty on how much of a gentleman Richie was, as he wasn’t trying to force her into having sex with him and was polite and reserved and respectful.

If only Marie knew. If only she saw through her rose-tinted gaze and picked up on those tiny, subtle red flags Richie was covered in from head to toe.

*

Audrey-Marie wanted to hang out on the first day of summer break. She was over-the-moon with the idea that they were entering into the same high school together, though Richie had curtly pointed out that there was only really one high school in town so it wasn’t as if they had many options. Despite Richie’s obvious blasé attitude towards the new life transition, Marie continued with her excitable high spirits throughout the last few weeks of school, and it had really grated Richie down to his last nerve. He had planned for summer to be a chance to step away from it all and take a break from Marie. It was exhausting, physically and emotionally, to have to keep it up. It was the same thing he had been doing forever but on steroids. So when Marie had called up and asked Richie if he wanted to go on a date on the first day of summer break, to go see a movie he didn’t give two flying fucks about, he had told her he was already busy. For the entire week. And that he would be the one to call her when he had the time. It had been a lie of course; Richie had no plans with the exception of smoking cigarettes out of his bedroom window, despite how much his mother hated the habit. Sometimes, he would stick the burning butts into his skin when he was done to put them out – he had a series of circular scars and scabs dotted across his body like some fucked-up constellations.

In the same way summer came with humidity and too many bugs, it also reinforced the ache that had made it’s home deep in his chest. The millions of questions, unanswered, that Eddie had left him with. A longing that he could feel in every pore of his body, that left a sour taste in his mouth, that pent up and up inside of him that it made his soul feel raw. He missed his best friend. He missed Eddie. And even if he could never touch him again, that was okay. He just wanted to see him, and to hear him, and for Eddie to exist and live around him. Richie found himself having picked up little rituals over time, things that he did whenever he found his brain fixating on thoughts of Eddie. They were intensely personal, and he never really talked to anybody about them. But he did them all the same, because in a way it made him feel closer to Eddie. the memories and feelings he desperately tried to hold onto. Reading certain comics on his bed, listening to certain songs and albums, watching certain movies over and over until he knew the dialogue by heart. Going to the big tree in the park and looking at the faded carvings that had long since scabbed into the bark. Drinking pepsi-cola and eating the candy that Eddie loved most. Walking through the woods, or down the old railroad, feeling as if he was somehow older than time itself. Sometimes he would sit on the porch, laces untied, and hope that if he thought about it hard enough, Eddie would just appear one day.

Richie was immersed in one of these particular rituals on that first day. He hadn’t been able to sleep all too well and had woken from what little sleep he did manage to get with a dull throb in his skull. He was up earlier than usual for this reason, and had decided to just go with it after going back to sleep proved futile. It was pleasantly warm already, and Richie was up before the rest of his family for once. His dad would be leaving for work in an hour or so, but for now the morning was tranquil. Richie threw on an old, slightly smelly shirt from his floor and some shorts as he decided to head outside to sit on the porch for a cigarette and a piece of toast. The whole street was still asleep as Richie took a seat on the old wicker chair that he was sure belonged to someone who had long since passed away, buttered toast balanced on his knee as he fought to light himself up. He briefly entertained the idea of waking up earlier more often – it was nice, calm, at this time. He felt like he could breathe for once, that the world had stopped for a second and he could try and catch up.

But that feeling came back, creeping up his throat.

And today, it was bad. Like, really bad.

And as that feeling came back up, the feeling of knowing something but not knowing all the same, Richie could hear the faint purr of an engine as what was unmistakably a taxi appeared at the end of his street. Taxis were a rare sight in Derry – no one really came or left in them, especially not in the quiet residential streets. He figured that maybe a neighbour had gone on a business trip or that the taxi had simply gotten lost trying to find someone. He kept his gaze securely on the vehicle as it slowed to a complete stop in front of Mrs. S’ little house, and Richie felt like his heart stopped.

He was frozen in place, his cigarette between his lips and his toast all but forgotten as his brain went blank. It was as if he couldn’t understand what he was seeing. And he didn’t. Mrs S didn’t use taxis to go anywhere. He hadn’t spoken to Mrs S really in months – he avoided the house like the plague. He had seen her on occasion as his mother had run errands for and with her, but that was as far as it went.

Richie stopped breathing as the car door opened. He could hear voices, but nothing too clear – the boot popping open as the driver got out. He strained to see who was in the car as they took their fucking time getting out of the vehicle. And as soon as they did, Richie was sure he was going to go into cardiac arrest.

It was Eddie. Two years later – taller, with an unmistakably sharper jaw, broader shoulders – but still unmistakably Eddie.

Richie was sure Eddie hadn’t seen him. He felt like a deer caught in the headlights. Was this a dream? Was he hallucinating? Was it maybe a weird doppelgänger that had switched out with Eddie at some point? Was he dead? He pinched himself hard. Once, twice. Eddie remained, lifting up a few suitcases, the driver hauling two more from his trunk and carrying them up to the doorstep. From a distance, Richie could see Eddie smile and thank the driver; a smile that he had seen over and over again in both his waking and sleeping dreams. Richie didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, to yell out, to run over. His body was completely frozen in time and space, his skin hot and prickly, his eyes wide behind his stupidly goofy glasses that he had recently repaired with some sticky tape and glue.

The door opened. Eddie moved his luggage into the walkway. Richie saw Mrs S pull him into a hug as she closed the door.

“Richie? What are you doing out here? Why are you up, champ? Is everything okay?”

Richie physically jolted in surprise, nearly giving himself whiplash as he turned to face his very confused father.

“What? Oh, yeah. Yeah, everything is okay. Just woke up early for once. Couldn’t sleep.” Richie fumbled, though he felt dazed, as if he had just woken up from a twenty year slumber – or gotten punched, hard, in the temple. Wentworth frowned at him, following his previous line of sight towards the taxi that was driving back down the street from whence it came. Heaven or hell, Richie really couldn’t be sure now.

“Was that just in front of Mrs S’ place?” Wentworth’s question, without any reason that Richie could discern, knocked the air out of his lungs. Richie sucked his bottom lip into his mouth hard, feeling it burst and spill blood onto his tongue. Fuck, he was dehydrated. When was he not? “Is it that Kas… What was his name? Kastrack? Kasshak? Krushank? K—”

“Kaspbrak. Yeah, it’s-- It’s Kaspbrak, I… I think.” Richie interrupted abruptly, turning back to face the house that now stood quiet and stoic. Richie wondered what was happening inside those walls. A silence hung between the two of them as Wentworth stood just a step behind Richie. He could feel his eyes on the back of Richie’s head, gaze unrelenting and curious. Richie didn’t move. He didn’t want to catch his eye. “You’re going to be late, dad.” He finally said, throwing the crust of his bread into the bushes for some animal to come across at some point.

“Stop smoking those things, Rich. You know how much your mother hates it. It’s not good for you.” Wentworth finally concluded in an exhale, ruffling Richie’s hair like he had for as long as Richie could remember. He didn’t put out the cigarette, that was burned right down anyway. In fact, he didn’t move a muscle as his father got into their car and drove away, leaving Richie alone once more. He felt like he couldn’t move for a long while, waiting to see any sign of life from the house across the street. He had tried for so long not to look at it, but now he couldn’t tear his eyes away.

The feeling from the new year dissipated into nothing, leaving behind a residue that tasted like fear and longing. All at once, Richie ran inside the house and slammed the door behind him. Later, he purposefully rode his bike out to the quarry on his own; he was terrified that Eddie would come knocking. Only once the mosquitos had started to flock to his open skin did he ride home – his body and mind a paradox of everything, all at once.


	11. arcade; 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe it was because Richie had accepted the fact that this was the way it would always be for him. His longing a secret that he compartmentalised into the smallest possible sections in his mind. Tucked away from the world. Richie had long forgotten how it felt to be true to the world, how it felt to be Richie Tozier without any reservations. He wasn’t even sure he really knew how anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 100 pages woooo boy

For two years, Richie had wanted nothing more than for Eddie to come back. He had hoped and prayed; he had given in to any superstitious thought he had. But now Eddie was really there and Richie almost wanted things to go back to how they had been a week prior. He had almost written the sighting off as a vivid daydream, though if it had been a daydream he was sure his mom wouldn’t have excitedly told him that she had seen Eddie with Mrs S. Richie had had to bite back a sharp response of _I know,_ instead eloquently grunting and ascending into his bedroom. He knew it was only a matter of time now before he saw Eddie again. And he was beyond nervous about it. It had been two years, and the only contact between them had been a panicked phone call from Eddie. He wasn’t sure why Eddie hadn’t come to Derry the previous year, if it even had something to do with him. He wasn’t sure if Eddie would want to see him or not, or if he would pretend like the events from the past summer didn’t happen at all. Richie wasn’t even sure what _he_ wanted. Did he want Eddie to acknowledge the kiss, or the moment of closeness on the sofa? Did _he_ want it to never be brought up again? He knew that he wanted to see Eddie. He really did. But seeing Eddie wasn’t the problem.

_He, himself_ , was the problem. Eddie knew Richie better than even his own parents did. If anyone were to guess Richie’s secret, it would be Eddie. Not to mention he could _prove_ it, because Richie had agreed to kiss him in the forest. So, if Eddie wanted to, he could basically ruin Richie’s life. What if he had decided to? It felt stupid to even consider it as a possibility, but what if Eddie had come back with that sole purpose in mind? Maybe his time away had brought forward the realisation that Richie was a gross creep, had made him recognise the nature behind all the fleeting touches and stolen glances. He could almost see it – Eddie lying in bed, disgust clear on his features as he thought about the amount of times Richie had been a pervert around him. It deterred Richie from crossing the street to go and see Eddie for the next two days, instead opting to hole himself up in his room with his gameboy and his curtains drawn. Luckily – or more appropriately – _unluckily_ for him, he didn’t need to cross the road and knock on Mrs S’ door to say hello to his childhood best friend.

Eddie took the liberty instead, apparently. Two days had passed since his initial arrival, though Richie was sure Eddie didn’t know that Richie already knew he was there. He had resigned himself to another day of live-action roleplaying as a hermit vampire when his mom knocked on the bedroom door.

“Come down, Rich. Someone’s here to see you!” By her excited tone of voice, Richie assumed it was Marie – which prompted him to roll over and shove his face into a pillow with a dramatic, whole-body fuelled groan. He didn’t even bother with fixing himself up, still clad in an oversized cheesy tshirt from some tourist trap town he had never even heard of and some old ratty shorts. His hair looked very much akin to an overgrown bird’s nest, thick dark curls twisting out every which way. He thumped his way downstairs, his already foul mood only worsening. He didn’t want to see Marie. He didn’t want to see anyone. He just wanted to—

Oh. Oh, _shit_.

Richie had rounded the corner, all dregs of tiredness melting away in an instant as his eyes settled on a certain Edward Kaspbrak. He was standing on the porch, chattering away with Maggie like a literal ray of sunshine. If Richie didn’t know better, he’d have thought he was the one with asthma with the way seeing Eddie made him feel breathless. He hadn’t noticed Richie just yet, and he was half tempted to run back up the stairs and tell his mother he had a stomach bug. The last two years had certainly treated Eddie well. His skin had remained blemish-less and clear, his face more angular yet still softened by youth. He had gotten taller, not significantly, but tall enough that it was noticeable. His shoulders had widened, and he had an _adam’s apple now_. It pissed Richie off to see how gracefully puberty had treated Eddie; it was as if he was transforming into a butterfly or some shit. Richie was still objectively gross – he had started to grow patchy facial hair, which he had only recently shaved off as it had made him look like more of a greaseball. Here Eddie was, looking like a model for Abercrombie, and Richie looked like every stereotype of the dorky nerd portrayed in film all merged into one. Apparently, just existing was embarrassing enough as it was. Eddie still had those perfectly white, straight teeth too. Not a singular brace in sight.

“Richie? What are you doing standing back there? Come and say hello to Eddie!” Maggie turned to look at him, as if she had some weird sense that was finely tuned to his presence. _Fuck_. Eddie peered around Maggie, and Richie’s face felt hot as Eddie grinned at him like he had won the biggest prize at the carnival. “You two should go and catch up. I bet you both have a whole lot to talk about! Oh, Eddie, I’m so glad you’re here! Richie has been such a _handful_ since you left, it’ll be so good for him to have you around again. You really seemed to help him sort himself out a bit.”

“Mom, I’m right here.” Richie scowled as he trudged towards the two of them. “Eddie might have stuff to do, ma. You can’t just force him to babysit me ‘cause I give you a _headache_ —”

“I’m not busy, _idiot._ Why’d I be here if I was?” Eddie reached over and swatted Richie’s shoulder lightly. It felt like a bona fide jolt of electricity shooting through his body.

“I’m in my PJs. At least let me put something better on, _soda-pop_.” Richie felt weird. A warmth slowly blossoming in his chest, unfurling from itself. It was like the past few years had been monochromatic, and now he was starting to see colour again.

“Oh, sorry. I didn’t realise this wasn’t your outfit of the day. You really can’t blame me; it _is_ something you’d leave the house in. I didn’t even know you had PJs, I thought you slept in whatever you found on the floor.” Eddie crossed his arms and grinned at Richie and he wasn’t wrong in that assumption. That warm feeling inside of Richie only intensified until he couldn’t help but grin at Eddie like an idiot. He was back, and it was _okay._ Everything felt okay. Eddie didn’t hate him. The questions could wait; no, the _world_ could wait. Richie felt as if he was over the moon and then some.

“The only thing I sleep in is my PJs and your mom.” Richie sighed dramatically, to which Maggie sighed and rolled her eyes. She planted her hands on her hips, raising her brows at Richie with obvious disapproval.

“Don’t be crass, Richard. Hurry up and get dressed. And put some deodorant on, you smell.” Maggie suggested, and Richie all but fell over his own feet to bound back up the stairs like an excited Labrador. He didn’t even have time to feel embarrassed or sharply reply to her comment. Eddie was downstairs. Richie could swear in that moment that the sun outside had never shone so bright in his entire life.

*

As the sun beat down from it’s overlook in the sky, Richie and Eddie walked in silence. They had just left the house after Richie had haphazardly thrown on his grey Freese’s shirt, cargo shorts, and his signature trashy sneakers that had begun to fall apart (and get a little too small). He had tried to be as quick as possible whilst choosing an outfit that wasn’t _too_ abhorrent. He also brushed his hair and made sure he doused himself in enough deodorant that he basically became a sentient can of body spray. He even stole some of his dad’s cologne. Richie hadn’t put this much effort in, ever, for anybody. Not even Marie. But Marie wasn’t his best friend who went M.I.A for two years, so that made it a very different occasion. Maggie gave him some money (which she _neve_ r did) and told him to go have fun with Eddie. To go hang out in the arcade or something, which was exactly where they were headed.

Only now they were alone, and Richie had a million burning questions he wanted to ask and no idea where to start. Eddie hadn’t really said much after he had said goodbye to Maggie, his hands buried deep in the pockets of his jean shorts. He looked, as always, well put together, with his Thundercats t-shirt tucked in and a dark leather belt securely around his waist.

“So, uh.” Richie began with an awkward exhale, his hands migrating to his own pockets as he tried to square his shoulders a little. “Heya, spaghetti-o. Long time no see, huh? Two years. A whole twenny-four month-a-roonies. Simple maths. I see you’re still rocking the garden-gnome-elf chic look; I was kinda thinking you’d be taller than me by now.” _Stupid, stupid, stupid._ Why were all his words so painfully awkward for him to say? Why was his brain so sluggish and dumb with it all?

Eddie snorted, looking at Richie for a second and shrugging his shoulders. He looked tired, and he was back to looking pale. Gone was that golden glow, the Milky Way of freckles Richie had always tried to count and find constellations within. He looked thin, too. Richie was sure he could wrap his entire hand around one of his wrists. He clenched his fist in his pocket.

“And I see you still talk a whole lotta shit. Two years, but still the same fuckin’ Trashmouth I left behind here.” Eddie sounded occupied, but Richie wasn’t sure if he was thinking too much of it. Overanalysing something that wasn’t there. It had been months since they’d spoken last. “But yeah. I’m back. And um… I’m starting high school here with you. I’ve moved in with my babcia.” Richie had to stop walking as he turned to look at Eddie, his eyebrows raised and his eyes wide as his words sunk in. Their meaning seeping into his neural pathways, twirling themselves into the deepest parts of his brain.

“Wait, seriously? You’re like… staying? In Derry? Permanently?” Richie asked, sounding like a fucking idiot because _Eddie had just said that_. But he had to ask, because he wasn’t sure if he was just hearing what he wanted to hear. He wasn’t still entirely convinced that what he thought was happening was actually happening. Maybe it was just another incredibly vivid and detailed dream. Eddie stopped walking too, facing Richie and giving him an unsure, sheepish smile. He cleared his throat and shrugged again.

“I mean, yeah. Unless I wanna move back to Massachusetts. But that’s probably not going to happen, at least not for a long time. I’ve decided I want to go to school here instead. I mean, I have friends here. Like, actual friends. I mean, I hope I still do. It’s been a while.” Eddie kicked a rock with the toe of his sneaker, biting the inside of his cheek and looking off to the side as he spoke. Richie could feel something well up inside him, and he had to swallow down what felt like tears. Hysterical tears, or something. Fuck, that was humiliating. But he grinned instead, so hard that his face hurt, and he wanted to hug Eddie to his chest – so he did. He pulled him in and hugged him as tight as he could, squeezing the ever-loving fuck out of the little pipsqueak.

“Dude, that’s so fucking— _fuck_ yeah. It’s gonna be awesome. I mean, having my best buddy actually living here? Going to school and shit? The Losers are gonna be fucking stoked, man. We can like, study together. Oh man. We’re gonna be like… Unstoppable. Living in Derry is gonna be awesome. You can come over to my place all the time! We can both team up to annoy the fuck out of Jennifer and my parents. God, I can’t wait to show you what it’s like living here past the summer. We have the most brutal winters, but it’s okay – I can lend you a snow jacket but it’ll probably be a little bit too big for you.” Richie’s words were erupting in a stream of fast, enthusiastic babbles, Eddie chuckling and eventually trying to squirm out of his grip. Richie, instead, lifted him up a bit, spinning him around on his heels before he placed him down as the smaller boy erupted into a series of half laughing, half shouting curses. “Eddie, my love, you are going to have a ball. I promise you that, my sweet, _old sport_.” Richie tried his best to imitate an old-timey, 1920s drawl as Eddie rolled his eyes and shoved him hard in the arm. He was smiling, though, and that made Richie’s soul sing. “So, like, why’re you here? Like, your mom didn’t let you leave, right, so how did you get here? What’s the dealio, Eddielio?” Richie asked, starting to walk ahead with a noticeable bounce to his step. He turned around, walking backwards so he could see Eddie while he animatedly talked. Eddie hesitated and didn’t follow Richie’s lead, his nose scrunching a little like it always had since Richie could remember.

“It’s… It’s complicated. I don’t really wanna get into it. It’s a long story.” Eddie put forward, starting to chew on his bottom lip. Richie didn’t want to point out that those three statements conflicted with one another. Which one was it? Was it complicated? Did he just not want to talk about it? Was it really a long story? “It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that I’m here, so… yeah. Anyway, I have some money to get some snacks at the arcade too. I’m dying for a soda. I haven’t had one in two years, dude. I’ve had fantasises about it you would not _believe_.” Richie knew that Eddie was purposefully trying to divert the conversation. That he was trying to take the attention away from the underlying concerns that had never been addressed. And Richie respected that, and he respected Eddie’s right to privacy. But he also hated the fact that Eddie was being vague and keeping him in the dark, especially after he called him in the sort of panic and fear he had months prior. Richie needed answers. He wanted more than the uncorrelated excuses that Eddie would respond with. Eddie began to walk, and Richie followed, their steps automatically falling into sync.

“It _does matter_ , dude. You called me in a complete hysterical panic and you’re telling me it’s not a big deal? Eddie. You need to tell me at least about that. Give me something to work with here. I’ve had all these questions for months, dude. I was so fucking worried. You could at least… explain to me, give me some sort of answer.” Richie was trying to be calm and collected, however he felt a little bit of agitation edge into him as Eddie seemed to clam up. That wasn’t fair. He couldn’t drag Richie into this and keep him in the dark all the time.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Eddie muttered, avoiding Richie’s gaze like the plague. Richie gritted his teeth, stopping once more in the middle of the footpath. Eddie tried to step around him, but Richie didn’t let that happen. He stared down at Eddie, his gaze unwavering and firm. “Richie, what the fuck—?”

“You don’t know what I’m talking about? _Fuck right off_. We both know you know _exactly_ what I’m talking about, Eds. What the fuck was that? I was _so scared_ , dude, I thought you were dead or something. You can’t just— pretend like that didn’t happen. What happened at your moms? What’s the deal with the boyfriend? You can’t just— you left for _two years._ You didn’t call anyone except for me, and it sounded like you were in some serious trouble. And now you’re here, saying you’re gonna live here, and you just expect me to… to not ask? To not want to _know_? Eddie, you’re my _best friend_. I—"

“Richie. Seriously. Drop it.” Eddie’s voice was sharp as a razor and just as stubborn as Richie’s was, and he once again tried to push past Richie. Richie grabbed his upper arm tightly.

“Eddie, come _on_ —”

“I said fucking _drop it_ , Tozier. Okay? Just fucking drop it. I don’t want to fucking talk about it, okay?” Eddie snapped, and Richie blinked. He snatched his hand away as if the contact burned, and in a way, it kinda did. Eddie had never spoken to him like that before. He’d never snapped at him in a way that was so obviously aggressive and assertive. Sure, they had playfully argued and fought a tonne. And even had heated arguments here and there. But this was different. This was cold, and cutting, and Richie was speechless.

The two of them were silent as they stood there, Eddie’s jaw flexing as he kept his eyes focused on anything except Richie. Richie could tell he was purposefully avoiding that sort of engagement; he could tell he was biting into the insides of his cheek, and without even looking he already knew Eddie was digging his nails into his palms.

“Sorry. That was… that was uncalled for.” Eddie’s shoulders slumped a little, and he let out a shaky sigh. “I just… I don’t… I don’t want to talk about it. It’s not that I don’t trust you, Rich. I do. But it’s… it’s complicated. And I moved here to get away from that all – I don’t really wanna go into it again.” Eddie finally chanced a look up at Richie. His lips pursed, and Richie could see his throat bob as he swallowed. _Complicated._ Richie heard that a lot when it came to Eddie Kaspbrak – what did that even mean? Why did no one ever try to explain it to him? Why did everybody try and keep it away from him, like he was just some dumb kid with no life skills? “I know… I know. I know how it… it must feel. But I didn’t plan for things to happen like this. I didn’t want to leave for so long, Richie. I’m sorry. And maybe I’ll tell you later, I just… I need time. Okay?” Eddie reached forward, tentatively brushing his fingertips along Richie’s forearm. Richie felt an entire monsoon of butterflies swarm inside of him; he was sure if he opened his mouth, they would all fly out in a horrific display of teenage emotion and insects.

“Okay.” Richie finally said, even though nothing really was. But had anything ever been okay? He couldn’t remember the last time things had been. “Okay, Eds. Just promise me you’ll tell me sometime.”

“I’ll try. I promise that I’ll try.” Eddie’s smile was genuine as he promised as much. Small, yes. But genuine, and Richie couldn’t help but return it. Eddie’s slight touch lingered, before it dropped. Richie wondered when they would be alone again – when he could relax, and let his guard down, because there would be no one around to see. “Don’t call me Eds, you goddamn muppet. Let’s go to the fucking arcade, okay? I was expecting to beat the shit out of you in Street Fighter, not get fucking accosted along the side of the road.”

Richie laughed, leaning up to playfully ruffle Eddie’s hair and ruin it’s perfectly styled quiff. Eddie cried out and slapped his arm. While that niggling feeling that unsettled Richie whenever he thought about Massachusetts and Eddie’s mom and all the blanks that had yet to be filled in still remained, he also knew there wasn’t much he could do about it. Eddie had always been hard to read, and he had always had his secrets. And Richie had his, so he supposed it was only fair. Maybe, when Eddie would eventually tell Richie about what had happened, about what had really been going on the entire time, Richie would tell Eddie that he thought he was prettier than any promise of damnation.

*

Richie had been to the arcade many, many times in his life. In fact, he had spent a considerable amount of time there in the past two years, fine-tuning his response times and attention to detail (justifications he would provide his mom). He didn’t usually go to the arcade with anybody. It was one of those things Richie liked to do by himself. Marie had suggested they go to the arcade after one of their ‘dates’ once or twice, but every time Richie had vehemently refused. The arcade was sacred to Richie. It was a safe space, one where he could forget about the world and just zone out, go somewhere else for a while that wasn’t his head. Even though while he was there, there were other people around him, he was terrified at the thought of letting somebody possibly destroy that. But when it was suggested that Eddie go with Richie to the arcade, he didn’t even think twice about it. There was, in all honesty, no one Richie would rather go with than with Eddie. Richie wasn’t even sure if Eddie had ever even been to an arcade before; he wouldn’t be surprised if he hadn’t, and if this was the first time of many. It gave him a sort of thrill to consider that this would be something special shared between the two of them, another permanent mark on Eddie’s life that he would hopefully never forget. Richie wanted to be there; he wanted to make a permanent mark on Eddie’s life, just as Eddie had unknowingly done to him. Even if one day, they would be old, and drifted far apart – if they had both gone through unspeakable tragedies in their lives, turning them bitter and angry and distant from the world and themselves, Richie hoped that he would still remain like a shiny coin in the murky depths, a glimmering memory full of fondness.

_Oh, if I could only remember his name – that boy with the curly dark hair and the always-too-loud voice. It was nice, wasn’t it? If only I could go back to that._ He would hope Eddie would think, as he would sit in a house that never felt like a home. Richie could reside in Eddie’s memories; ceasing to exist only once every detail dropped away over time. It was a peaceful, beautiful way of dying.

Eddie insisted that they buy some soda and candy from the corner store that they passed on the way, and Richie handed him his money to let him do the honours. Even if Eddie chose something Richie didn’t like – which was highly unlikely, as they seemed to gravitate towards the same sort of things – he would eat it without a single word of complaint. Solely because Eddie had selected it with him in mind. Richie would gladly eat dirt or bugs if Eddie politely ordered it for him. But luckily for Richie, Eddie didn’t order anything particularly unusual – some sour patch kids and skittles, both of which Richie knew very well were not compatible with his braces in the slightest. Despite this fact, and the knowledge that his dad was going to hit the roof on him if or when he found out about the candy consumption (Richie was already on pretty thin ice in that regard), Richie happily ate all of the candy offered to him. They were usually all the flavours that Eddie didn’t like so much. Richie didn’t like them too much either truthfully, though he pretended like they were his favourite just so Eddie would keep all of the best flavours to himself without guilt. Eddie was chattering away about nothing, and Richie was more than happy just listening to him as he talked. He sipped at his can of soda, calculating in his brain when he could chance a glance in Eddie’s direction. Too often, and too long, it would be weird; so, he had to space it out, so it was as normal as possible.

He had begun to notice just how pedantic he was about everything when he was around Eddie. Despite the two years that had passed, Richie just went right back into old habits. Don’t look too much, too long. Stand close but not too close. Touch sometimes, but not too much. It was all so precise, internalised calculations that he couldn’t put down onto paper if he tried. _Don’t touch the other boys, Richie, or they’ll know your secret._ Even if Eddie was different – even if he had asked Richie to kiss him, even if he had held onto him so close whilst they watched Jaws on his grandma’s ancient television – he didn’t want to take a risk. It wasn’t like it was a regular risk, like smoking, or drinking even. No, this risk had the potential to ruin Richie’s life. And even Eddie’s life, too. Small towns were unkind and never understanding. Richie didn’t want Eddie to be labelled with the _gay_ label when he wasn’t even gay. It just wasn’t fair.

One thing that Richie loved about the arcade was he constancy of it. How it was always there, unchanging, reliable. It would be just how Richie left it, give or take a new game or slight change to the decor. But there was something reassuring about the fact that stepping into the arcade meant stepping into something Richie knew and understood. The sights and smells were so familiar that Richie could mentally recreate the entire environment in vivid detail in his brain. In the arcade, Richie didn’t have to be Richie. Richie could be anybody he wanted to be, he could go anywhere, and do anything. In the arcade, Richie had to worry about saving the world, or beating an opponent. He didn’t have to worry about his body changing, or the fact that he liked boys too much, or what happened next for him. He didn’t have to worry about his parents, or Eddie, or his friends, or Bowers, or Marie, or school. He wished he could stay there forever. Protected from a world that didn’t understand him and didn’t want to. He didn’t try and explain this feeling to anyone. In fact, Richie never tried to explain any of his feelings to anyone really. Eddie and Beverly were probably the two people he had shared the most of himself with, in different ways. It had been Stan and Bill when they were younger, but as the years passed, Richie found himself feeling more and more distant from the world. He wasn’t exactly sure why Beverly and Eddie were the exceptions to this rule; why exactly it felt as if they were reaching to him, trying to help pull him out of the rapids that threatened to sweep him away. They just didn’t know that he had a million bricks weighing him down to the bottom and nothing they could do would really help him.

By the time they were stepping through the heavy glass doors and into the questionably lit establishment that probably didn’t do any favours for Richie’s already terrible eyesight, the both of them were full of unspent energy. It was probably the excess sugar and artificial sweeteners now coursing through their veins, or maybe it was from the time they had spent forcibly apart bubbling up to the surface. Whatever it was, Richie felt like he was almost high from it all; like he was walking on clouds, and had sparks shooting through his veins. Eddie was pointing out everything and anything that caught his eye, which was practically every aspect of the arcade. And despite the fact that Richie knew this place better than anyone, he liked to think, he indulged in Eddie’s excitement as if he didn’t know that _yes_ , they had PacMan, and _yes_ , there was a popcorn machine, and _yes_ , the patterned carpet was pretty cool. And usually, the arcade provided Richie with all the stimulation he wanted in all the right ways – but he found that despite the fact that they had a bunch of new games out, and the fact that the line for popcorn was pretty short today, that his attention was elsewhere. Eddie. Eddie. It was always on Eddie. Eddie, who made his fourteen-year-old heartbeat like a marching band drum.

“I wanna play Street Fighter. You always talk about it and it sounds so fucking cool.” Eddie chattered to Richie as he shoved tokens into the pockets of his pants, grabbing his can of soda from the counter so he wouldn’t forget that he had placed it there to free his hands up. Richie had already played Street Fighter to death, and he was more into Sinistar at this point. But he grinned, and bumped Eddie with his shoulder towards the machine he had stood in front of for countless hours trying to perfect his score.

“Sure, spaghetti-head. Dunno if you can beat me, though. I got my skills down pat.” Richie boasted lightly, to which Eddie rolled his eyes and half-ran towards the game.

“I’m gonna fuck you _up_ , Tozier!” Eddie called back over his shoulder, to which Richie hung back for a second, watching him excitedly beeline towards his target. His heart felt so swollen in his chest that he found it hard to swallow properly.

“The—the only person fucking me up is your mom, Kaspbrak!” He rapid-fired back as he forced himself to follow, despite how his knees and legs felt loose and clumsy. Eddie flipped him off as he turned around, Richie fumbling with the tokens in his overly sweaty hands. His heart was racing, like he was about to jump out of a plane or off the ledge of a cliff or something. It really wasn’t a big deal, Richie knew this very well, but for him it was a _very big deal_. Eddie was practically vibrating in place as he waited impatiently for Richie to get the game started, his fingers tapping rapidly on any surface he could manage.

The familiar title that Richie had seen a million times flashed across the screen, and Eddie’s gaze was transfixed. Richie could see the reflection of lights in Eddie’s wide, chocolate eyes, his lips slightly parted and his brows furrowing in concentration. Richie felt like he was gonna puke all over the front of his shirt, so he tried to force himself to concentrate on the game. He selected the American flag, and didn’t register what characters were chosen because he was too hyper aware of the fact that Eddie was close. Like, really close, next to him. And he had that look in his eyes and on his face that made Richie feel all mushy inside, like he was full of the world’s runniest mashed potatoes.

_Round one._

Richie’s hands were so sweaty. His whole body felt sweaty. He could hear his heartbeat; he could maybe even taste it if that was even possible.

“Tell me the controls, dickhead.” Eddie hissed, reaching over to pinch Richie’s shoulder. Richie’s tongue felt too big for his mouth, and his mouth felt too dry. He explained the controls as best as he could to Eddie, letting him get a hit in. After that, they began to play. Richie’s entire game was off. The controls were slipping and sliding everywhere, and he felt light-headed and dizzy and hot and cold like he had a fever. Maybe he was unwell. Maybe he just hadn’t noticed it until now?

He knew that he could easily beat Eddie. Eddie barely knew what he was doing, but he was surprisingly good for a first timer. But Richie had hours and hours of practice, so he knew beating Eddie would be as easy as pie. But he didn’t. He let Eddie win, though he pretended that he had tried. He didn’t know why, because he hated losing. Especially to someone who had no skill or experience in the game; it was humiliating. But _he let Eddie win_. And Eddie grinned in triumph, shoving Richie playfully before he seemed to concentrate only harder as the next round opened.

_Round two_.

Why did Eddie make him feel this way? It had to be Eddie. He only felt like this when they were around each other, when he was close to him. When he saw Eddie in a way that made him feel the best and worst he had ever felt. One moment, things were fine, and they were just best friends that spent countless hours together. The next moment, Eddie would do something that would send Richie’s brain into hyperspace, rocket his soul into another dimension. He was filled with so many emotions, and feelings, he had never felt in his life. Eddie had always had that affect on him.

Eddie won round two. Richie hadn’t even been concentrating, he had been too far in his own head. As Richie’s dejected character faded into the black background, Eddie whooped and hollered loud enough for the entire arcade to hear. He grabbed Richie by the shoulders, excitedly shaking him twice, and Richie felt as if he was reeling.

“Take _that_ , you fucking four-eyed Godzilla _freak_! Suck my dick loser, I fuckin’ beat your _ass_ first try!”

Oh god.

_Oh god._

Richie could only laugh, looking at Eddie with a wide eyed, almost manically happy expression.

Eddie was beautiful. He was so many things, all at once. He was beautiful, and he was everything Richie could ever want. Richie wanted to spend the rest of his life with Eddie. He wanted to do everything in the world with him. He wanted to keep him all to himself, he wanted to grow old with him, he wanted to make him happy every day of his life.

He loved Eddie. It made sense, now. He was _in love_ with Eddie, and he had been for _so long_. So long that it was just a part of him now. He was sure he would never love anybody in his life like he loved Eddie Kaspbrak. He would have to live with that; and he would. He would live with it day by day, and he would go to sleep with it at night. He would lie in bed with the fact, he would wrap himself up in it until it choked him and killed him. He was in love, and it was a horrible thing, but it wasn’t really that horrible. Not that much. Not really at all.

*

Richie was giddy the entire time they were at the arcade. They played countless games until they ran out of tokens; Richie letting Eddie win a solid 80% of the time. Eddie looked as if he was having the time of his life, chattering away at a thousand miles an hour, tugging him towards the games that grabbed his attention the most. Richie let himself get pulled in any direction Eddie wanted him, impressing Eddie with the bunch of random facts and knowledge he knew about most of the games that he chose. Whenever he managed to impress Eddie in any way it made Richie feel like he was going to explode with pride and confidence, so he tried to do it as often as he could – with the exception of letting Eddie win pretty consistently. He was sure Eddie knew he was doing it on purpose by the time they were out of tokens, though he didn’t say anything. He just grinned at Richie, wide and toothy, his eyes sparkling impossibly despite the dim lights. Seeing Eddie in the arcade felt almost cinematic, with the way the brilliantly coloured lights would glow across his skin. His features would sometimes look sharper, sometimes softer, hues of the rainbow filtering through his curls. Richie wished he had a polaroid, like Beverly did, so he could take a picture. He managed to convince Eddie instead to save the last few dollars he had (which he had insisted they were going to use for snacks) to use for the photobooth.

The photobooth was one part of the arcade Richie had never dared to venture into. He didn’t have any reason to – he didn’t want to take photos of himself, by himself. And it seemed trivial; why would he go to a photobooth when he was surrounded by a bunch of awesome games he could spend his (his parents’) money on? But in that moment, Richie saw the lone photobooth in a completely different light. It was an opportunity. Richie knew there were a few photos of Eddie and himself together; his mom had taken a few over the years, as had Mrs. S. He was going to pay Beverly to give him any polaroids she took of them or of Eddie, just so he could squirrel them away for safe keeping. But the photobooth was a chance for Richie to get photos of the both of them, photos no one else had. A physical photo of them that he could keep tucked away safely in the drawers of his desk, hidden underneath his favourite copy of Treasure Island and a million overdue homework assignments. Eddie agreed to his idea after Richie convinced him that they could get snacks any day, but it wasn’t _everyday_ they could use the photobooth (as if the arcade wasn’t open most days, but Richie _really_ wanted to use the photobooth).

They were both in a fit of chuckles as they sat close together on the small seat. Eddie’s leg was pressed entirely against Richie’s as they fiddled with the machine. Richie had never used a photobooth before, and neither had Eddie, and the novelty of it all (despite how minor it truly was in the scheme of things) made them jittery with the excitement that had long been running through their veins since they had arrived.

“We have to decide what we’re going to do for our poses.” Richie tried to be as serious as he could, even though Eddie was still giggling over a bad joke he had made minutes beforehand. “Like— _stop laughing_! Oh my god, okay. So, we have to like, choose a few poses for the photos. Something cool.”

“Okay, okay, how about… Hm. How about this?” Eddie dramatically put a hand behind his head, exaggerating a pouty smoulder towards an invisible paparazzi. Richie snorted loudly, unable to stop himself from bursting into a fit of laughter again.

“Oh yeah. That was _so hot_. Vogue material, Eduwardo.” Richie snickered, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose some more. “We’ll do a stupid one, and uh… one where we… hmm… One where we flip off the camera, okay, and a surprise one. The last one we just do something random. Sound good, my man?”

“Wow, who knew you could actually plan ahead? Truly a scientific marvel. Sometimes, I swear you don’t have a brain at all, and other times you talk like you’re actually fucking intelligent.” Eddie nudged Richie with his elbow and smiled up at him, a warmth emanating from him that made Richie’s tummy feel as if it was full of melted chocolate.

“I _am_ fucking intelligent, dipshit. You think my jokes are dumb, but in reality they are way past your _calibre_ of comprehension. I’m gonna press the button to start this thing, okay?” Richie leaned forward, Eddie shifting in place with nervous energy as the machine count down. He sat back down beside his best friend, acutely aware of how much bigger than Eddie he was. Even in the photobooth, his legs were considerably longer, and he was still taller than Eddie who was sat beside him.

The first photo went exactly as planned – Eddie and Richie both pulled ridiculous faces and poses. Eddie pretended to be some vain superstar posing for the paparazzi, and Richie decided he would be the zombie that was about to attack the unsuspecting celebrity. After the photo was taken, the two of them were in near hysterics – unable to stop laughing even as the second photo went off, resulting in the two of them being caught mid-laugh and flipping off the camera in a weird juxtaposition. Richie hadn’t thought out his pose for the third and final photo. He had been too caught up in it all; yet this didn’t seem to be the case for Eddie. Richie was still chuckling to himself as the final photo was taken, his glasses askew on his face. He figured it was fine if the last photo was boring, as the original plan had kind of gone to shit anyway. But in the split-second moment before the last photo was permanently captured, Eddie slammed a hand down onto Richie’s leg and awkwardly boosted himself up. His lips hit Richie’s cheek, and Richie’s brain physically broke as it tried to compute what it was that had just happened. His face was hot as he looked at Eddie with wide eyes. Eddie just grinned back at him, the apples of his cheeks pink, as he jabbed an elbow into his ribcage.

“You said it had to be a surprise, huh? Beat you _again_ , Tozier.”

*

The exhilaration that filled every part of Richie from the time spent at the arcade with Eddie followed him the entire walk home. Their hyperactivity had faded into a pleasant buzz between them, with the two of them having candid and casual conversation. It felt like no time had passed between them. Eddie was still Eddie, and Richie was still Richie. Eddie walked close beside him, his hand occasionally bumping Richie’s or brushing against his arm. They both didn’t comment on it, and Richie pretended not to notice. The kiss on the cheek felt like it had been branded into his skin, and while he knew it was just a joke and a way for Eddie to win whatever unspoken challenge Richie had posited, he couldn’t help the way it made him feel. The way it gave him an extra pep in his step. His copy of the photos was tucked into his wallet, where he knew he would be able to safely transfer them into his desk drawer. Eddie had his copy of the photos in his front right pocket, behind the near empty packed of sour-patch kids that resided there.

They both had come to a clear conclusion that their photobooth photos would not be seen by anybody else but them. Like the kiss, they would remain for only the two of them to know of. It bothered Richie, but it bothered him a little less than the kiss originally had. Maybe it was because Richie had accepted the fact that this was the way it would always be for him. His longing a secret that he compartmentalised into the smallest possible sections in his mind. Tucked away from the world. Richie had long forgotten how it felt to be true to the world, how it felt to be Richie Tozier without any reservations. He wasn’t even sure he really knew how anymore.

Things changed, however, the instant they rounded the corner and onto their street. Richie felt the bitter coldness of reality hit him like a sharp slap in the face as he saw Marie talking to his mom at their front door. Eddie noticed his pace slow and turned to look at him with a confused frown before he looked back towards Richie’s house to determine the source of his obvious discomfort.

“Who’s that? Is that your sister’s friend?” Eddie asked, and Richie was positive all the blood in his body had been replaced with ice water. He felt a cold sickness in his stomach, a heaviness that felt like he had swallowed a bunch of stones.

“No, she’s uh… she’s… my… um…” Richie stumbled over his own words as Eddie waited for an explanation, his eyes darting over his face rapidly. Richie just stared at him for a moment, his face feeling uncomfortably hot.

“Your what, your cousin? Spit it out, Rich. Jesus, are you suddenly channeling Bill now?” Eddie teased, and Richie couldn’t even laugh. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from his own doorstep, where Marie seemed to be having an enthusiastic conversation. Why was she there? Richie told her not to come. Richie didn’t want her there. She was ruining everything. She was going to ruin everything.

“She’s… kinda… my girlfriend, I guess…?” Richie finally mumbled awkwardly, unsure if Eddie even understood what he had said. But he had. He could tell he had by the way realisation seemed to dawn on him like a new day, his eyes widening and his lips parting.

“Your… girlfriend.” Eddie said those two words slowly, looking towards Marie before looking back at Richie. There was a thick, palpable silence that fell between the two of them. Eddie was looking at Richie, really looking at him, like there was something more to see. Richie didn’t know what to say. He felt like he should apologise, but he wasn’t even sure what for, or who to. “Like… for real? Like you go on um… dates?” Eddie’s frown only deepened, and he dropped his gaze towards the ground for a second. Richie felt like crying, but he swallowed it down as deep as he could.

“Yeah. Sorta. I guess.” He croaked, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looked at his shoes, awkwardly crumbling some gravel beneath the toe. “Sometimes we go places. But I haven’t ever taken her to our places.”

“Do you kiss her? Do you like… are you in love with her?” Eddie asked, and there was a certain edge to his tone that felt like he was squeezing all of Richie’s internal organs in his hand all at once. Richie cleared his throat, shrugging noncommittally.

“I have kissed her about… three times at most. But I don’t really want to.” Richie was honest with his answer. He didn’t know how not to be in this situation, or how not to be with Eddie. The way he was looking at him felt as if he could see through him anyway and get all the answers he wanted. “And no. No, I don’t love her.”

“Oh,” Eddie said softly, before he was quiet again. Richie didn’t know what to say, awkwardly shifting his weight from foot to foot. He didn’t want to go home. He wanted to turn tail and run all the way back to the arcade. He wanted to hide in the photobooth forever with Eddie. He never wanted to leave. He never wanted to _live_. Eddie visibly swallowed, and he pursed his lips tightly. So tight Richie could barely see them anymore. “Well, are you going to introduce me to her? Or am I a secret or something?”

Richie nearly choked on his own saliva. He had never even considered the possibility of introducing Marie to Eddie or vice versa. It just wasn’t something he had ever really considered as a viable possibility. For the longest time, Eddie and Marie were on different planes of existence from one another. They were never supposed to meet.

Richie had told Marie that she was the first person he had ever kissed. Richie had told Marie that she was the prettiest person he had ever seen. Richie had told Marie a lot of things, but none of them were true. And Eddie was a living, breathing contradiction to every one of Richie’s definitive lies.

“No, no— yeah. Yeah. I’ll introduce you guys. I um… I just didn’t expect this. I told her I didn’t want to see her this week.” Richie frowned, beginning to drag his feet along the ground like they were weighed down with lead. Any traces of what they had left the arcade with had all but disappeared. They didn’t say a word as they walked the final stretch towards the house. Eddie didn’t even look at Richie, his knuckles flexing at his sides. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to notice it, or point it out, so he didn’t. Instead, Richie dug his nails into the skin of his hand as hard as he could manage. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what to do. The weight of it all had just come crashing down onto Richie’s shoulders, knocking everything out of him and leaving him scrambling for all the scattered pieces. He didn’t want to ever reach the house. He wished they could just keep walking forever, and that Eddie would never have to meet Marie.

Would he see the similarities that were so blaringly obvious to Richie and even Beverly?

By the time the two of them reached the corner of the front lawn, Maggie had noticed their sombre return. She grinned at them, her disposition sunny and oblivious as ever, and Richie had an urge to just _scream_. To run out into oncoming traffic. Sometimes he hated his mother, and he didn’t even know why. She didn’t do anything to deserve it, but maybe that’s why he hated her so much. She just didn’t do _anything_. She was such a nice woman, she did everything right, and yet she had Richie as a son. How could the world be so cruel to her like that?

“Um. Hi,” Richie waved an awkward hand, and Eddie stood beside him. He wasn’t close anymore – he was pointedly distant, like he was purposefully avoiding touching Richie. Would that distance only grow? Richie wasn’t sure if he could deal with that. He didn’t want to have to deal with that. _How was he supposed to deal with—_

“Why, hello boys! Marie just came by to check in on you, Richie. I have to go back in to check on the food in the kitchen. You all behave yourselves! Lovely to see you, as always, Marie.” Maggie disappeared back into the house, and Richie was tempted to follow – anything was preferable to this.

Marie looked nice – she always did – with her long brown hair pinned back out of her face and cascading down her back. She was wearing a bright floral dress, and Richie couldn’t for the life of him tell if it was new or not. She smiled at Richie and at Eddie, clasping her hands in front of her. Eddie didn’t speak, his eyes drifting between Richie and Marie as if he was trying to figure out some astronomical equation.

“Hey, Richie.” Marie finally broke the silence with her soft, cooing voice that drove Richie absolutely insane. She blinked her wide eyes at him, and Richie realised that they were nothing on Eddie’s. “I thought you said you didn’t want to see anybody this week. I thought you were unwell, so I came to check in.”

“No uh—I went to the arcade with Eddie.” Richie said, and he sounded like an idiot even to his own ears. “Oh, uh… _this_ is Eddie. He wanted to meet you. He’s from Massachusetts.” Richie gestured to Eddie as if Marie hadn’t noticed him standing right there, to which Eddie gave a wave and a tight smile.

“Oh, Eddie? As in, _Eddie_ , Eddie? Richie talks about you all the time. I’m so happy to finally meet you! I’m Marie.” She reached out for a handshake, which Eddie tentatively took. It was brief and light, and Eddie pulled away quick to wipe his hands on his shorts. Marie was nice enough not to comment. “Maybe we can go to the arcade later sometime, huh, Richie? We can use the photobooth. It’ll be fun!” Did he really talk about Eddie that much? He didn’t remember talking to Marie about Eddie at all.

“No, it’s okay. I don’t like the photobooth.” Richie muttered, the photos he and Eddie had taken burning a hole in his back pocket like illegal contraband. If she only knew – if she only asked for his wallet, for some reason, it would all be over. She would know, he was sure of it. It would just make so much _sense_. No, he didn’t want to go to the arcade with her. He didn’t want to go anywhere with her. She was too good for him, and he couldn’t ever love her. Not in the same way he loved Eddie. He didn’t have any room left in him to love anybody else, he was sure.

“Anyhow. I’m so sorry for intruding on your day, boys. I’ll head off now. It was so nice meeting you, Eddie. I can’t wait to see you another time to get to know you!” Marie chimed, and Richie felt like an intruder in his own skin once again. What was he supposed to do or say? He felt like he was an actor without a script, being asked to play a part he didn’t know. Marie didn’t wait too long for either of them to say much in return, instead giving Richie a light kiss on the cheek (not the same cheek Eddie had kissed, thank God) and walking down the street. They both watched her until she disappeared from their sight, and even then, they did not move. They just stood side by side, staring at the space she had occupied only moments prior.

“She’s… She’s really pretty, and really nice.” Eddie said finally, faintly, and Richie shrugged. He couldn’t look at him. He just couldn’t. All of this – it wasn’t supposed to collide with Eddie’s trajectory in his life. He would happily never have a girlfriend if that meant he could just be Eddie’s best friend for eternity.

“Yeah. She is, I guess.” Richie licked his lips as he paused, frowning behind his stupidly big glasses. He felt like he had bugs under his skin. He wanted a cigarette. He wanted to drink something that would taste like nail-polish remover. He wanted to rip his hair out from the root with his hands. “Do you want to come to my place?”

“No,” Eddie said, softly, and it made Richie’s throat hurt like he was going to cry. And he felt like it, but he wasn’t going to let himself. Of course Eddie didn’t want to come over. Why would he? Why did he even ask such a stupid question in the first place? “No, I think I should go home now. But I’ll see you soon. She seems… She seems cool. Do you take her to the clubhouse?”

“No.” Richie looked back towards his own house. He didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t want to go anywhere. He just wanted to walk into Mrs. S house and become one of her countless porcelain figurines. He wanted to melt into the wallpaper. He wanted to become the wind that caressed Eddie’s skin. He wanted to kiss him properly in the photobooth. He wanted to tell him everything, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t.

There was a brief and awkward goodbye, Eddie barely touching his shoulder and unable to really look at him in the eye. It hurt. It hurt so much Richie was sure he was dying then and there, but it was all his own fault. And what else was he supposed to do? Loving someone was supposed to be so easy, but what was he supposed to do when that person would never love him back? When that love was so bad it could hurt everybody Richie cared for? He knew he was going to be alone. That there would come a time where Eddie would have his own family, and his own wife, and Richie would be there. He would watch Eddie’s happiness and live vicariously through it, and when he was alone, he would imagine how it would feel to be able to be with somebody who loved him in the same way he loved them. He wondered how it would feel to not be afraid and have thoughts that weren’t so loud and that didn’t scare and disgust him. He wondered what it would be like to go to the fresh produce section with the man that he loved and not have to worry about getting asked to leave because some stupid kid with glasses half the size of his face didn’t understand.


	12. nosebleed; 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being fourteen was hard. Being fourteen sucked shit. And being fourteen, and in love with your best friend who was a boy in a world that hated gay people sucked the most. Richie had come to that conclusion quite quickly and it lived rent free in his head; as did all of his anxieties and fears, as did all the things he wished he could long forget. Richie kind of hoped that things wouldn’t get worse from there on out. That somehow, they would get easier instead, and he would wake up one day and everything would just be fine. That he could work towards a future where he knew, for certain, that he would be happy. But there was no future like that. The uncertainty was what got to him, what felt like a choking grip around his neck. Squeezing down tight like a vice-grip. Everybody knew where they were going to go, but Richie had no idea where he was right then.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very quickly beta read oops but hey

There had never been a point in which Richie considered the possibility that Marie and Eddie would meet. Even though, evidently, that possibility was a very real one, Richie just hadn’t ever viewed it as truly valid. And why would he? He had figured Eddie wasn’t going to come back, no matter how much he wanted him to. That his life in Derry was somehow on a different plane of existence to whatever was going on in Boston, MA. The whole Marie thing hadn’t ever meant to mingle with the whole Eddie thing – and now, they very much had mingled. Or rather, collided, like a goddamn atomic bomb within Richie’s life. Everything Richie had so carefully constructed, balanced precariously like a house of cards, had come tumbling down in a moment. Without a sound. But unlike a lot of Richie’s personal tragedies and dilemmas, this one directly involved two people. Two people who were suddenly very aware of each other’s existences, and that brought a lot of attention to Richie that he had been trying desperately to avoid this whole time. It brought on _questions_. And Richie didn’t _do_ questions.

Things were awkward. Not only with Eddie, but Marie, too. And both of them were just as bad as the other (driving home another point of similarity that now made Richie feel sick to the stomach) when it came to pretending that there _was_ no awkwardness, when it was very much there. It was warranted, Richie understood as much. And yet, he had no clue how to remedy the situation. Was there even a fix for it? He couldn’t talk his way out of this one – and he had tried. He had invited Marie over to his place for a movie and some snacks, and they had chilled out on his bed in his room. Richie had tried to make things not weird. He tried to make his usual jokes, the ones Marie would laugh at; he picked out a movie he knew she liked despite hating it himself and sat through the entire thing; he even tried to kiss her on his bed. But Marie hadn’t laughed, only politely smiled. And she didn’t care for the movie. And she had turned her head when Richie had tried to kiss her, telling him that she had a tickly throat and it probably wasn’t a good idea.

Marie had never acted that way before, and Richie knew that wasn’t a good sign. But he didn’t know what else he could do – he really had pulled out all the stops that had had her swooning for months beforehand, so what had changed? Really, what was different? Sure, Eddie was back – but had that much really changed? Apparently so, because Richie had excused himself to go to the bathroom, and upon returning Marie had hurriedly told him she had to go. She didn’t even want him to walk her to the door, let alone home. Well, fuck. _Fuck_.

And Eddie wasn’t any better, really. The two of them hung out with the Losers a few days following the surprise Best-Friend-Introduced-To-Girlfriend situation, and there was something just… off with Eddie. He would be laughing and joking with everybody, and he would be as tactile as always with Richie – but then he would pull away suddenly, as if touching Richie physically hurt. And if Marie was mentioned, Eddie’s face screwed up so tight Richie was surprised his features didn’t stay that way permanently. It only got worse as the days wore on. They would hang out one on one, but the topic of Marie was pointedly avoided. And some days, Eddie seemed to be trying to stay as physically distant from Richie as he could without it being overkill. Other days, Eddie would be all fast-talking and brash, almost angry – and on those days, he wouldn’t hold back; he would touch Richie with a surety and a firmness that was almost alarming. And he would stare at him pointedly with an unwavering stare and a firmly clenched jaw, like he was trying desperately to either communicate something or just _understand_.

Fortunately, Richie managed to keep the two apart following the uncomfortable first encounter. He had become quite pedantic about it, though he was pretty sure Marie and Eddie were putting an equal amount of effort to avoid another chance meeting. His mom had suggested to him, once, that he invite both Marie and Eddie over for a dinner and movie night. Richie hadn’t known how to possibly explain to her how bad of an idea that was – because he knew it was a bad idea, a horrible idea, but he didn’t really know… why. It just felt wrong. Almost like swearing in a church or opening food in the grocery store before you paid.

Richie really did try everything. He did, he was sure of it. He had tried to make things normal between himself and Eddie and Marie as much as possible, but it just… wasn’t happening. It was as if there was an unspoken divide between him and the two of them now. For Marie, something about Eddie was causing a ridiculous amount of tension that didn’t seem to ease no matter what Richie did. And for Eddie, Marie’s existence was prompting himself to begin distancing himself from Richie more and more. He knew that he had to do something; and coming clean to both Eddie and Marie wasn’t even an option he could begin to consider. So, there really was only one option left. A last resort, one that he was being _forced_ into. It was out of his control, really; he didn’t want to run the risk of losing Eddie again, or have Marie cause one, or possibly multiple, issues. So, it was for the best. It really was.

*

It was an unusually cold day. Or maybe, Richie’s conscience was catching up to him. Whatever it was had his skin covered in goosebumps, the nape of his neck prickling uncomfortably as he stood on the bridge that was on the edge of town. Richie had been there a few times before, though he generally stayed away as it was usually crawling with high-schoolers and the occasional member of the Bowers’ gang. Marie had been the one to suggest it, for whatever reason. He wouldn’t be surprised if she hung out in the area regularly with her little posse of pretty-girls; it was close enough to the New Houses, one of which belonged to her family, and it was one of the ‘nicer’ things in town. Especially compared to the abandoned areas and the DIY clubhouse that Richie and _his_ friends preferred to frequent. Marie had taken Richie to a fair few of her regular hang-out spots, all of which were a stark contrast to his usual go-tos. Richie had never taken her to any of _his_ spots, because they were special, and he doubted she would be too fond of the Variety of Places You Can Get Tetanus: A Guided Tour with Richie Tozier.

They had both decided to meet within 20 minutes of the time Richie had called. According to his watch, Richie was on _time_ for once. Marie was late, though, by around five minutes. And while this usually didn’t bother him too much, it was exceedingly irritating on this specific occasion because Richie just wanted to get this over and done with so he could go home. He waited for Marie to show up, leaning against the railings of the wooden bridge and bouncing a foot in place. It was quiet, that evening. A few people passed him, walking on their own or in pairs or with a dog. Richie would shoot them tight lipped, awkward smiles, feeling as if he was about to commit some sort of fucked up crime and that these people were to be potential witnesses. Of course, that wasn’t the case – they wouldn’t be witnessing some horrific murder or something, but instead they would just see how much of an asshole Richie was. This wasn’t news, though, so he doubted anybody would be all that surprised. The kid who made obnoxious sex jokes all the time, and did pretty offensive impersonations of people, was an asshole? _Shocker_.

Marie appeared a few minutes after a couple jogged past Richie, shooting him a filthy look as he struggled to light up a cigarette. He was still struggling with his zippo as Marie stepped into view, to which he decided to postpone his endeavours so as to deal with the situation at hand. The situation, of course, being Audrey-Marie.

“Hey, Richie.” Marie smiled up at him. She looked pretty. She really did; with her hair pulled out of her face in a half-up hairdo, a few stray strands curling around her jaw. She had on light makeup that only seemed to accentuate her doe-like beauty and a white dress, long and flowy, with these sleeves that were very over-the-top and reminded Richie of some Hippie-esque flared jeans. In another life, Richie figured, Marie would have been perfect for him. They would have been high-school sweethearts, getting hitched at 18 and having a kid 9 months after. In that reality, everything went how it was supposed to go.

“Hey, Marie,” Richie responded, holding his cigarette and lighter in one hand. There was a pause. Marie carried a certain unspoken sadness about her that evening, like she knew what was coming. And she had to, right? She had to know what was coming. Was it really a surprise? Richie was a dickhead. He was a piece of shit, an asshole. Marie was so out of his league she was in another game entirely. She _had to know that_. There was no way she didn’t.

“Sorry I’m late. I was having dinner with my family, and I had to help with the dishes afterwards.” She explained, and Richie hummed because he didn’t really know what else to do. He had come to the bridge prepared with a million things to say in his brain. He had planned it out to the detail, every possible outcome; but now he was here, he couldn’t remember any of it. It was different, seeing Marie in person. It was harder than it was in theory. In theory, Richie could just spit it out and leave and that would be the end of that. But in person, right then, at the bridge, he didn’t know how to say it. “Is everything okay? Why did you wanna see me? What’s going on?” Marie asked, and Richie shoved his hands into his pockets, squinting past Marie and towards the body of water they were situated above. Would it just be easier to swan dive into that, risk breaking every bone in his body? Maybe it was deep enough to swallow him into the core of the earth, or he could live there underwater – staring up from the murky depths. It would be quiet. Everything would be so quiet. Even him.

“I mean… Yeah. I guess, sorta.” Richie mumbled, shrugging his shoulders and exhaling heavily. He watched a bird floating downstream calmly, preening its grey feathers. Huh. He wondered if Stan knew what sort of bird that was.

“Richie?” Marie repeated his name, reaching out. Her fingers gently touched his upper arm, and Richie wished he had remembered to bring a jacket. Her touch hurt. He wanted to rub it away until it was nothing. Guilt gnawed at his stomach, frayed the edges of his nerves. Why had he let it get this far in the first place? “Is this about… is this about Eddie?”

“What?” Richie spoke too loudly, his word echoing across the water and piercing through the serenity of the park. The bird flapped it’s wings, though it didn’t fly away. He looked at Marie, panic clawing it’s way up his throat with it’s barbed talons. “What? What—why would you even say that? No. Why would it be about Eddie?” Richie frowned, finally looking at her again. She was looking at her hands, her brow furrowed deeply. Marie was always so sunny. She was always so sunny and sweet and kind, so carefree. But in that moment, Richie saw a lot. He saw doubt, and confusion, and hurt, and pain, written plainly across her cherubic features. He had never seen those emotions on her face before; and here they were, clear as day, because of him. Because of Richie.

God.

He was fucking rotten, down to the goddamn core.

Marie picked at her nailbeds as she seemed to try to find the words to say. Richie took the liberty to continue, not wanting the conversation to stray from what it was supposed to be from the very beginning. A conversation he had drafted in his mind over and over, millions of times from the start. “No. No, it’s about us. I think we should break up.”

Richie’s words, though not as loud as his previous exclamation had been, sounded louder between the two of them. Marie’s movements stopped, and she looked up at Richie with what looked like incredulity.

“…Really?” She said softly, her bottom lip trembling. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. _Please don’t cry. Fuck, don’t cry. You’re gonna make me feel bad._

“Yeah. I mean… I think you deserve someone better, Marie. I have a lot going on, and… and I wanna focus on school and shit. And I just… I don’t think I’m ready for a relationship, you know? You’re a really nice girl, you’re really pretty. You shouldn’t have a problem finding a new guy who treats you a heap better than I ever have.” Richie’s words, a butchering of a million different excuses, tumbled out in a cascade, practically atop of one another. “Please, don’t cry, Marie, I—”

“I can’t believe you.” Marie wiped at her eyes with her white sleeves. Richie noticed the way the mascara she was wearing bled onto the material, and he wondered if it would stain. He hoped not. He hoped she would be able to wash it clean; to forget this had ever happened. Forget about him, about what he was putting her through. About what he had done. “I can’t— You’re breaking up with me, and that’s all you can think to say? None of that even makes sense, Richie! None of it does!” She glared up at him, her jaw set so rigid it could cut through glass. Richie’s mouth opened, but no words came out. “You’re so full of _shit_ , Richie Tozier. This whole time— I can’t believe you. This is about Eddie, I knew it. I knew it. How stupid do you think I am, Richie? Really? I know you must think I’m… I’m so dumb, because I just… I looked the other way. But you don’t think I didn’t think something was weird with you?”

Richie felt the colour leave his face in that moment. His mouth went dry. He felt as if he was as still as a corpse. He couldn’t breathe. He really, truly couldn’t.

“Marie, what?” He croaked, but she didn’t even seem to hear. She just stared at him, with those eyes that were so piercing and accusatory that he felt as if he was going to faint. He grabbed onto the railing of the bridge.

“Richie, you really think I wouldn’t know? It… makes sense now. And I’m… I’m angry at myself for being so stupid and not seeing it sooner. And then I met Eddie, and I just—I can’t believe you. I can’t fucking believe you, Richie.” She wiped at her face again, at the tears that continued to run down her cheeks, that caught the light a little. They looked almost unnatural, alien. Ethereal. “I saw those photos that you put in your drawer, Richie. I went looking because I thought maybe I would understand what I was doing wrong. But I saw those, and I realised I wasn’t doing anything wrong. It was you. The whole time.” She took a shaky breath in, and Richie felt like he was seconds away from puking all over the front of his shirt. He was planning a million ways to die on his way home in that moment, because it was over. It was all over.

“Those photos don’t mean anything—”

“And I suppose everything else I’ve seen doesn’t mean anything either, right, Richie?” Marie’s shoulders slumped, and she finally dropped her accusatory gaze. For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of cicadas that filled the air between them. Richie felt like he was miles away from his body, looking down at the two of them. “And on the kissing bridge, too. Real classy, huh, Tozier?”

“The what?” Richie didn’t even know that this bridge had a name, let alone a purpose. “Marie, I’m sorry. Please don’t—” He felt as if he was pleading, negotiating with someone who had a gun to his head. “Please don’t say anything. Please.”

“I won’t.” Marie didn’t hesitate in her response. Her voice was still full of emotion, overflowing in a way that told Richie she would probably not be done crying for hours now. That this had been building up for a while. “I won’t tell anybody. I’m breaking up with _you_ , not the other way around. And I want you to stay away from me. I want you to stay far, far away from me.” Marie sounded almost as if she was pleading with him. Why was she the one pleading? She was the one with information that could ruin Richie’s life forever, and she was the one pleading with him?

“Okay,” he breathed. He could barely hear himself; he wasn’t even sure if he had spoken at all. “Okay.”

“Okay.” Marie inhaled deeply, as if trying to gather herself up. She wiped her hands on her dress. Richie couldn’t move. He was sure he had grown roots in that spot. He felt as if he breathed too deeply, Marie would shout it out loud for everybody to hear.

_Derry! Richie Wentworth Tozier is a raging faggot! Richie Tozier is in love with a boy! Richie Tozier has lied to you all, every single one of you!_

“You’re a piece of work, Richie. I really, really hope you figure yourself out someday and stop dragging everybody else into the mess you’ve made of yourself.” Marie’s words weren’t said in a way that was malicious, yet it still felt like a stab through the chest. It still made Richie’s ribcage feel as if it was being broken into, one rib at a time, pried wide open. _Crack, crack, crack._ “You’re a joke. I hope you get help. God knows, you need it.”

Richie watched as Marie left him there. He watched, barely breathing, until she was gone from sight. He lifted his cigarette to his lips, and with a trembling hand, he lit it. And he breathed in deep. He breathed in as deep as he could and held it in until his lungs hurt, until he couldn’t do it any longer. He hoped that Marie would forget he ever existed. He hoped that she would find someone who would make her the happiest person on earth. She deserved it, especially after what he had done.

*

Being fourteen was hard. Being fourteen sucked shit. And being fourteen, and in love with your best friend who was a boy in a world that hated gay people sucked the most. Richie had come to that conclusion quite quickly and it lived rent free in his head; as did all of his anxieties and fears, as did all the things he wished he could long forget. Richie kind of hoped that things wouldn’t get worse from there on out. That somehow, they would get easier instead, and he would wake up one day and everything would just be fine. That he could work towards a future where he knew, for certain, that he would be happy. But there was no future like that. The uncertainty was what got to him, what felt like a choking grip around his neck. Squeezing down tight like a vice-grip. Everybody knew where they were going to go, but Richie had no idea where he was right then.

Following the personal catastrophe that was his break-up with Marie, Richie felt like he ought to tell Eddie right away. He didn’t because he couldn’t reason to himself why he would even do that. Why would Eddie care? It would be weird to run over to his house to update him that his first official relationship with a girl had crashed and burned, so it was okay, and they could go back to normal now. It was desperate, and Richie didn’t want to come off as desperate. Even if he was, realistically, very desperate. So he didn’t tell Eddie. He told his mom instead who was devastated over it. Richie felt pretty bad, seeing her cry like that, but he didn’t know what to do. He didn’t know what to tell her when she asked what had happened. He just shrugged his shoulders and said that ‘it just didn’t work out’ and that Marie ‘just wasn’t that into him anymore’. Before she could ask any more questions in her sobbing state, Richie had ascended into his bedroom. He found the pictures he had stashed in the drawer, alongside some of his less risqué magazines, and he moved them where he was sure no one could find them even if they were looking. That part of him was safe, once more, hidden from any prying eyes. While he selfishly, and stupidly, hoped that one day he could bring that part out for the world to see, the larger part of him hoped that he could bury it six feet under.

_Here lies Richie Tozier’s deepest shame and guilt. No one needs to know; no one has to know. Keep it close to the chest. You make your momma cry enough._

Despite the fact that Marie seemed to know Richie’s secret – or something close to it, at least – and his mother was beside herself with the news of their split, there was a weird relief knowing that it had come to a close. He liked to think what Marie had said was true and that she wouldn’t tell anyone. And even if she did, Richie figured he could hopefully spin it to look like she was simply an angry ex-girlfriend wanting to smear his name. He could try and play it cool and hope that no one would think any more of it. Because what other evidence did they have that it was true? Richie had given no one any reason to suspect a thing. He could probably even find a way to explain it away to Eddie. The vice-like grip of dread that Richie had felt had loosened at the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to kiss Marie anymore, or take her on dates, or hold her hand. That he wouldn’t have to keep pretending that he felt something he didn’t, that there was an attraction when Richie was genuinely more attracted to old ham. It wasn’t because there was anything wrong with Marie; saying as much would be unfair, because Richie knew very well that he was the one in the wrong.

Part of Richie figured he ought to act a little upset with the most recent developments in his apparent ‘love life’, when in truth he was pretty fucking jovial about it. He played it up a little; slumping his shoulders and frowning, scowling when his mom would tentatively ask him how he was feeling. Maggie was entirely sympathetic of his supposed heartbreak, giving him what he guessed was a hug of support and a few dollar bills to take the edge off. Richie told her that he was going to spend the day with his friends to take his mind off of the heartache, and as soon as he was out the door, he exhaled. He felt like he had almost been reborn as he jogged down the steps with the break-up money in his hand, making a beeline for Eddie’s place.

*

For the most part, Richie and the Losers (and by extension, Eddie), had managed to steer clear from Bowers and his goonies during the summertime. That particular gang lived across the other side of town to the Losers and had pretty well-known hang out spots that Richie and his friends tended to avoid like the goddamn plague. Unfortunately for the Losers, the Bowers gang were getting restless hanging out in the same spots every year; and had dragged themselves out from the depths of filth they usually resided within to find some new entertainment. Richie had noticed that he had seen Bowers and his friends much more around the town than usual, though he had hoped they would lose interest and go back to doing whatever activities rednecks did during summer break. Realistically, however, he understood that this was probably an unlikely outcome. After all, why go back to their dilapidated shit-box houses and drop-kick parents when they could hang around in wait for their next unsuspecting victim.

Or, in the case of Richie and Eddie, _victims_.

Richie had managed to convince Eddie to come with him into town to spend his post-break-up-money (not that he told him as much) on some popsicles or something. He hadn’t exactly figured out how he was going to tell Eddie about the whole Marie deal. He wasn’t even sure if he was going to tell him about the fact that Marie had seen the photobooth pictures. He knew that Eddie probably ought to know, considering he was directly involved in the situation and had been _in_ those images. But maybe it was better that he just… didn’t know at all. It was risky, because if he brought it up to Eddie there was a possibility that Eddie could also figure out Richie’s deal. And if Eddie figured it out, it was game fucking _over_ for him.

Instead of doing the right thing, Richie just decided that maybe he would avoid it until he couldn’t avoid it any longer – like he did with everything, ever, in his entire life. Besides, Eddie was in an okay mood and he didn’t want to risk spoiling their trip by bringing that whole messy situation up. He’d much rather hear Eddie give him a complete recap of the latest developments in the Thundercats universe or tell him all about how his grandma’s cat had brought a dead bird into the lounge room while he was working on one of his scrapbooks the night before. Richie told himself he was doing Eddie a favour, really, by leaving him purposefully in the dark and sparing him that unnecessary burden of anxiety. He was just trying to be a good friend, even if part of Richie knew that he really was a pretty shitty friend in all truth.

Eddie’s presence served to distract Richie from pretty much everything. When they were together, a meteorite could hit and demolish Derry and he would truly remain blissfully ignorant. It was safe to say that Richie didn’t notice the presence of the bullies, despite how blatantly obvious it was. Of course, Eddie didn’t even know that the gang was really a thing, so it wasn’t as if he was on the look-out. As far as the both of them were aware, they were just going to go grab their respective popsicle and milkshake and be on their merry way. Free of any sort of altercation or incident, like they had so many times before. Richie shouted Eddie a Firecracker Jr whilst he ended up grabbing a Strawberry milkshake. The both of them were in high spirits as they sat on the curb, Eddie licking at his icy treat and Richie leisurely sucking away at the milkshake he felt like in some way he had earned. He tried to sparingly look at Eddie, because as much as he tried _not_ to let himself think in that way, he couldn’t help but feel hot under the collar as far as the popsicle was concerned. Eddie was blissfully unaware, because why wouldn’t he be, and Richie was… a little bit too aware. And he felt dirty and gross about it, though he tried to push that away to marinate in later.

Richie had only taken a few sips of his drink, having been pretty involved in his conversation with Eddie about the Godzilla franchise, when he heard an all too familiar voice. He must have pulled a face, because Eddie frowned, licking his lips before he asked—

“What’s wrong, Rich--?”

The question answered itself before Richie even had the chance to consider it.

“Richie Tozier! What d’ya know.” Henry Bowers’ voice boomed from behind the two of them, and Richie’s face further contorted as he turned to look up at him. Richie was sure he was a psychopath or something. All of them had to be. They were the kinds of kids who set fires and killed animals for fun and took immense joy in trying to make Richie’s life as miserable as they possibly could manage. “Who’s this kid? Is he your _boyfriend_ , faggot?” God. That felt like a goddamn punch in the fucking gut, and Richie felt a fresh surge of anger and humiliation hit him all at once.

“Fuck off, Bowers.” He snapped back, though his voice was nowhere near as powerful as he had hoped it would be. He clenched his jaw, and Henry kneed the back of Richie’s head. Richie wanted to die he was so humiliated. He couldn’t look at Eddie. He tried so hard to impress him and seem cool, and Bowers just had to come into the picture to fuck it all up and make him look like a fucking pussy bitch.

“What the fuck is your problem?” Eddie’s voice was a lot more confident than Richie’s had been, the tone of anger and annoyance undeniable and sharp. “Fuck off, okay?”

“Don’t fucking talk to me like that, you fucking toothpick. Richie’s a fucking four-eyed freak who touches kids behind the gym at recess. Did he tell you that, huh, girly-boy? That’s probably why he likes you so much, he’s gonna fucking rape you.” Bowers declared, to which Eddie gave him a look of disgust. Richie felt his insides sink to the floor, his face burning and his throat tightening. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckfuckfuck.

“Excuse me?” Eddie’s tone rose in pitch like it did whenever he was super pissed, and Richie felt like he was gonna hurl. He saw Eddie start to stand up, and Richie scrambled to stand up too. Eddie had no idea what he was getting himself into. Bowers would send him to a fucking hospital – he’d done it before, with the Adrian Melon kid. Richie had never seen that much blood before. “My name’s Eddie, you goddamn troglodyte. Why are you so fucking obsessed with Richie? Do you like keeping tabs on everything he does? What, are you in love with him or something?”

“Eddie—” Richie began, grabbing Eddie’s sleeve to try and discourage him from the confrontation. But Eddie was unwavering in his resolve, standing his ground even as Bowers seemed to go red in the face with rage. The much, much larger boy took one step forward and was chest to chest with Eddie, who looked absolutely miniscule in comparison. Richie’s whole body felt cold, his heart throbbing painfully in his ribcage.

“Henry, chill, he doesn’t mean it—” He tried to weakly diffuse the situation, to which Eddie shrugged.

“I did mean it. I bet he’s been looking for you the whole day because he’s in love with you, Richie.” Eddie had no fear. He looked at Bowers as if he was nothing but a pest, and Richie tried to pull him away so that they could fucking book it before they got all of their limbs snapped into smitherines.

“What the _fuck_ did you say to me, you pathetic fucking _worm_? I’m going to break your fucking skull in, you motherfucking cocksucker—” Oh shit. Oh shit. Richie could feel panic hit him like a steam-train. He could see it now – Eddie twisted up like a pipe cleaner, all bent out of shape forever as a human pretzel. “You’re gonna regret being born, _Eddie_ —"

“Go suck your dad’s dick, Bowers.”

It left Richie’s mouth before he could think otherwise. Both Eddie and Bowers looked towards Richie in clear surprise. Even Richie was surprised. God, he really had a death wish, didn’t he? “I said,” he spoke up again, taking a deep breath. Do it for Eddie. Do it for Eddie. Do it for _Eddie_. “I said, go suck your fucking inbred-hillbilly redneck dad’s _dick_ , Bowers. I’m sure he’s waiting for you at home,” Eddie’s face split into a grin, which made Richie feel a surge of confidence to continue with his stupid taunts, “so he can give you dinner right from his dick.”

Henry didn’t even bother threatening Richie. Instead, he shoved Eddie hard, sending him straight into the concrete. Richie barely had time to respond before Henry grabbed him by the hair, swinging his first square into Richie’s jaw. Pain blossomed throughout his skull as he felt his lip burst from the impact, Bowers shoving him up against the old mailbox that stood outside the corner store.

“I’m gonna fucking _kill you_ , faggot, you hear me? I’m gonna fucking rip your fucking eyes out—” Henry was screaming centimetres from Richie’s face, slamming him hard against the postbox again. He felt all the air leave his lungs and he spluttered and coughed.

“I’m not a faggot, dumbfuck—” Richie croaked, his mouth tasting like blood. He felt it dribble down his chin, and he spat a mouthful out onto the sidewalk before he would accidentally choke on it. “Do you—do you spend time at night, thinking about what you wanna call me? That’s sweet, Henry, reall—” Henry punched him again, sending Richie’s glasses to the ground. This one was in the stomach, and Richie groaned in pain, unable to double over completely.

“Get the fuck off of him, you Clydesdale barf-bag!” Eddie had picked himself up off the floor and had landed a kick into Henry’s shin. Seeing the sign of a possible attack on Bowers, his collective of degenerates who had stood back for the majority if the altercation decided to descend. Eddie was pinned to the same mailbox Richie was, kicking and cursing and spitting. He was smacked hard by Patrick, and Richie flinched and looked away. He couldn’t bear to see Eddie get beat up right beside him. He could barely even make out the taunts from the ringing in his ears, much less make out much at all without his glasses. He hoped they weren’t completely broken, because he knew they couldn’t afford a replacement.

“So cute, Richie, that you have this little spaz coming to rescue you. I bet he is your boyfriend, huh? You know what happens to faggots in Derry, right?” Henry’s breath stank as it was hot against Richie’s face. He tilted his face away as much as he could physically manage to. Yes, he knew what happened to faggots in Derry. He didn’t say anything, spitting blood out once more as it overwhelmed his tastebuds. “I think we should toss your little Eddie over the edge of the ravine. See how well he swims when both his fucking legs are broken.”

The threat made Richie’s whole body feel like it was solid ice. Richie swallowed, but all he swallowed was his own blood and spit. Eddie was continuing to fight beside him, struggling, because Eddie had more fight in him than anyone else Richie knew. “Bet you’d love to give him some CPR, huh? Gives you a good excuse to kiss him before he’s rotting in the dirt, where fags like you belong—”

“Break it up! I have the police on the phone, boys, you go home right now!” Richie was convinced the shop owner was Jesus in disguise. Godsent, at the very least. He could cry, he really could, and he very nearly did as the Bower’s gang let go of both him and Eddie and hurried to get gone. Not before Henry spat a loogie right onto Richie’s already ruined shirt, of course. The both of them fell to the ground as they were suddenly released, more pain shooting up Richie’s spine as his coccyx hit the concrete.

“Eddie—Eddie, are you okay?” Richie turned to look at Eddie for the first time. His best friend looked like a mess; his knees and elbows were scraped and bleeding, and he had a savage bloody nose. There was a large bruise forming along his cheek. Richie didn’t know how, but he looked beautiful always. Even bloody and bruised. And he smiled at Richie, a wide, toothy grin and shrugged his shoulders.

“Yeah. I’m okay. I think we really got into his head.” Eddie sniffled, and wiped his nose with the back of his hand, effectively spreading blood across his cheek. “You look like shit. Are you okay?”

“I think so.” Richie hurt all over, but he wasn’t about to say that. He had to put on a brave face. He managed to find his glasses, picking them up and inspecting them. Luckily for him, they were only just slightly bent out of shape, so he was able to put them back on again without a worry. “That’s the Bowers gang for you. I think you’ve put a fucking bounty on your head, Eds. Good job.”

“Cool.” Eddie grinned, and Richie thought Eddie was cooler than Richie could ever manage to be. “We should split before the police come. I don’t want babcia to know I got into a fight.” Eddie said that fact like he was proud of it. And maybe he was. Richie had been in many fights, ever since he was a kid, so the novelty had fast worn off for him. But he couldn’t help but grin at Eddie in return, or even stop himself from laughing at the ridiculousness of it all; especially as they both got up and ran as soon as the police car rounded the corner onto the main street. The popsicle and milkshake were both abandoned, spilt and melting into the gutter, and Richie felt young and dumb and in love with the boy next door.

*

Mrs S wasn’t home. A blessing, really, as Richie and Eddie had no idea how to explain the condition they were both in. Eddie’s nose was still bleeding, and Richie’s lip was only just starting to clot up; the two of them looked like they had survived a hurricane or getting hit by a bus or both, so it was probably for the best that she was not around so she wouldn’t go into shock. According to Eddie, she was going to be out for the entire day, meaning they had plenty of time to clean themselves up and come up with a compelling story as to what happened that afternoon. A story that didn’t include getting the shit beat out of them by Bowers and his cronies. It was mainly for Eddie’s sake, as he’d never gotten into a fight before, and wanted to keep a relatively clean record with his grandma.

“What about— what about we fell out of a tree?” Richie suggested as they walked into the house, Eddie making a beeline for the box of tissues. He grabbed a few before he changed his mind and grabbed the entire box, holding the bunch of them up to his bloody nose. “Scrap that. That’s a shitty lie. Uh… What about… we were racing down the street, and one of us tripped and grabbed the other one so we fell down together?”

“I really don’t know if she’ll believe that,” Eddie frowned as Richie toed his sneakers off at the door. “Follow me. I have some first-aid shit in my room. I can help patch you up.” Richie assumed that he meant the main room, because that’s where they’d always hung out. But as he followed Eddie, he realised that he didn’t mean the main room at all. No, he meant his _bedroom_. The forbidden room Richie had never set foot in. The room he had thought about for hours, wondering what was inside, what Eddie was hiding. Richie barely had time to steel himself as Eddie led him down the short hall and towards the door at the end. On it, there was a hand painted name plaque. Richie assumed Mrs S had made it, or maybe Mr S before he kicked the can. “My room’s a bit of a mess. Sorry. I wasn’t expecting company.” Eddie muttered, his voice muffled by tissues and the way he was pinching the bridge of his nose. He turned the handle and let the both of them inside.

It was completely… normal. Richie hadn’t known what he had expected, but Eddie’s bedroom was pretty unremarkable. It was tidy and neat, with everything packed away and arranged in a way that Richie knew would make his mother sob in adoration. On his desk sat a pile of scrapbooks, most of them thick with content, the top one seemingly only half full. His bed was perfectly made, his covers a plain deep blue colour. His room felt almost mature, if not for the action figures and comics. He didn’t have any posters up, but Richie assumed that could be because he had only just moved in properly and was still settling. What Richie thought was awesome was that Eddie had his own little ensuite, which was also kept incredibly tidy from what he could see. God, Richie would kill to have a space like this one.

“You can sit on my bed.” Eddie instructed as he disappeared into the bathroom. Richie didn’t sit down, too distracted with the novelty of the forbidden area. He followed Eddie instead, watching him rifle through the mirror cabinet and pull out a fully stocked first-aid kit. “Dude, sit down, you don’t need to follow me into the bathroom.” Eddie rolled his eyes as he grabbed two washcloths and dampened them under the tap.

“Give me a break, Eds. I haven’t seen your room before; I’m checkin’ it out.” Richie defended his obvious curiosity as he turned around and sat heavily on the edge of the bed. It was a double bed, which was awesome too. Eddie was living in fucking luxury here. He waited for his friend to get whatever he needed to, trying to pick up all the details he could of his surroundings. On his bedside table he had a framed picture of what Richie assumed to be his parents and Eddie as a tiny child. He was so small, and so sweet, and he had the same smile. Eddie looked a lot like his dad in the picture. Much more so than he looked like his mother, who was a lot more slender in her youth. Behind the picture frame, Richie’s eyes caught on something else. A few boxes neatly stacked atop one another, as well as a few bright orange pill bottles. Richie raised his brows, turning one of the bottles to look at the label out of curiosity.

“Don’t touch that.” Eddie’s sudden voice made Richie jump, effectively knocking the pill bottle over. Eddie tossed his assortment of medical paraphernalia on the bed as he walked over, grabbing all of the medication and hastily shoving it into the top drawer of his bedside table.

“What’s that all for?” Richie asked, raising his eyebrows. “What’s Pra… Prazo… Prazosin? That’s a lot of medication, dude, is it all for asthma?”

“Something like that. It’s not important.” Eddie muttered as he sat on the bed beside Richie, frowning deeply as he opened his first aid kit. “I need it all. It’s all prescribed to me, so don’t think about taking any.” Richie felt himself frown as he watched Eddie pull out some gauze and antiseptic ointment. Sure, he wasn’t a doctor or anything, but Richie was pretty sure medication was pretty important and taking too much of it wasn’t good. Plus he found it strange that Eddie had asked him not to think about taking any, as if that was a thought that had crossed Richie’s mind. Why would he take any? Maybe Eddie was a lot sicker than Richie had thought. He had a whole pharmacy worth of prescription medication just casually sitting on his nightstand like it was candy. He cleared his throat, and Eddie seemed to be concentrating real hard; hard enough that his tongue was poking out just a little from between his lips. Richie swallowed what felt like a rock in his throat.

“This is probably gonna hurt a bit.” Eddie warned as he faced Richie; though he gave no warning as he scooted closer, grabbing his jaw in his hand firmly to keep him in place. Richie felt his cheeks get outrageously hot as Eddie started to clean up his busted-up lip. Sure, it stung like a bitch, but he found that he barely cared. They were so close on Eddie’s bed, and he looked so sweet; he looked like the sweetest thing Richie had ever seen. He thought about the kiss; the vivid detail he had stitched into his memory. He wanted to feel that again. He wanted to kiss someone like that, to feel the spark and the energy, to feel the desire that swirled and built up inside of his chest until it painted his world a brilliant scarlet. “You’re quiet.” Eddie commented his observation within a singular breath, like it was an afterthought. He wanted to know what Eddie was thinking all the time. He wanted to be present within his thoughts so he could experience and understand. He wanted it so badly yet had no idea how to describe it.

“I broke up with Marie,” Richie blurted out. He hated how his voice sounded all the time. How brash it was, and how it seemed to ruin whatever atmosphere he was in. It was an ear-sore. He always spoke too loud and too much and too fast. He would often run out of breath trying to get everything in his head out into the world. “Yesterday. I mean… she broke up with me. Whatever, it doesn’t matter. It’s um… it’s over now.”

Eddie’s gaze on Richie’s lip didn’t falter, his grip on his face tightening just a little bit as he lightly dappled the gauze to collect up whatever blood was crusted on his face. Richie wondered if he had forgotten that Eddie himself was covered in his own nosebleed. He wondered if he should say anything, but it felt almost as if he would risk ruining this. Whatever this was.

“Oh,” Eddie murmured, his brows pulling together as he leaned to his side to grab some more gauze and some weird cream Richie couldn’t recognise, “why? She was nice.”

Why?

Richie’s hands felt sweaty and sticky, so he tried to subtly wipe them on his pants. How could he even begin to describe why? How could he ever tell Eddie it was because of _him_? All of this was because of him. That he was in love with him, and he was sure he always would be, and that he didn’t know how to cope with that at all. How could he describe that the way Eddie made him feel was so overwhelming it left him gasping for breath in the best way, and that he wanted to be with him? He wanted to be with him, not with anybody else. Not with nice girls who were too pretty for Richie, with nice girls who only wanted the best for him. He wished he could tell him. He wished Eddie would understand, but Richie didn’t even understand any of it.

“I never really… liked her that much. In that way. I didn’t love her. I just dated her because I felt like I had to. Because that’s what everyone wanted from me.” Richie’s words were thinly veiled but they weren’t lies. They were as true as he could be. He ached. He ached. He wanted Eddie to kiss him. He could die right afterwards, and he would be okay with that fact. He wanted so much that he could never have, and it consumed him.

“You shouldn’t have done that.” Eddie dabbed cream onto Richie’s lip, and he was half tempted to bite down and split it open again just so this would never stop. Eddie’s knee was pressed into Richie’s leg uncomfortably, but he savoured that. He wanted to be close. Closer, closer. He wanted to comprehend Eddie’s body in a way he couldn’t describe.

“I know,” Richie’s voice crackled and popped like gravel. Eddie inspected his face closely, tending to smaller wounds that he hadn’t even known were there. Richie wondered if Eddie could fix him on the inside too, or if he was truly a lost cause. There were a few beats missing, breaths or heartbeats or both, silence that felt bittersweet. Intentional but wasted. He couldn’t stop thinking about things. About Eddie, about the kiss all those years ago. His whole body itched with the possibility of taking the risk. It welled up inside of him, up and up and up until he felt as if he was gasping for air. “Eddie, do you remember the forest?”

“Why are you asking about the forest?” Eddie’s words sounded so smooth, almost as if they were both in a dream. “We shouldn’t talk about that.”

“But I want to talk about it. I think we need to talk about—”

“I don’t.” Eddie dropped the gauze, but he didn’t move away. He stayed where he was, holding Richie’s face in place. He stared at him with his big brown eyes, right through him, and Richie was sure he saw something there. What he saw, he didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Richie’s breaths were flighty and airy, ghosts puffing past broken skin. He knew the needed to talk about it. But he also knew that if they didn’t, they could probably go on and never think about it too much. If they didn’t, Eddie wouldn’t push him away, like he pushed so much away in his life. He wondered if there were medications he could take to stop this all, and if Eddie could get them. He thought about the men he had seen on a documentary on TV, had heard about in hushed conversations. Men who liked men who were sick because of it, who were going to die. Men that wasted away, and nobody wanted to touch them or know their names. Richie was terrified of it all. He was terrified of things he didn’t understand, yet he didn’t want to understand because it made it all too real. “I think about it too. But we can’t talk about it. It didn’t happen. None of it has. It’s better this way.”

Richie didn’t think so. Richie felt like he was rotting away from the inside out. That he was full of toxic sludge. But instead of saying that, he reached up and gently placed a hand atop of Eddie’s. His hand was so shaky and sweaty and clammy, and he felt sick or like he was going to faint. But they were alone. And no one would know or see. Hidden behind closed doors, hidden from the world, as Richie would always be.

“Just practice, right?” Eddie’s voice sounded distant to Richie’s ears, and he nodded once though he knew he didn’t need practice. And Eddie probably didn’t either, but neither of them said that. If it was practice, it wasn’t anything else. If it was practice, they could keep it a secret. Laugh it off so it wasn’t anything. Their faces were bruised and cut up, and Eddie had blood dried copper all over him like an abstract painting. He is hands and knees were scraped with gravel, a testament and reminder as to why Eddie was right. And why Richie knew he was right. Because boys being boys was better than boys loving boys. That boys who loved boys dug their own graves and laid in them long before they even understood what it all meant.

Eddie leaned forward on his knees, bringing Richie’s face closer to his. Richie felt like he was dreaming. He had to be – he had played countless of scenarios like this in his head over and over and over again since the forest. Maybe it was a dream. Or maybe he was in heaven. Or maybe it was hell. He couldn’t tell the difference anymore. All he knew is that Eddie was close, and he could feel his breath on his lips, and Richie’s hand found it’s way on the back of his neck. He didn’t even realise he was moving when he pulled Eddie in to finally bridge that gap between them. It was just like the first time, the last time. All Richie could taste was antiseptic and blood, but he didn’t care. There was no hesitation; their lips met, and there was still the awkwardness of trying to figure it out, but it was brilliant all the same. It felt good and natural and Richie never wanted it to end. Not even the braces or the glasses stood a chance at ruining it. They were hidden and it meant nothing but it meant everything all at once. Eddie pulled him closer, and he tilted his head a little, and Richie’s heart jumped into his throat as he felt Eddie’s tongue hesitantly press into the seam of his lips. Without thinking, Richie opened his mouth. His heart was racing, and he felt a weird prickly light numbness throughout his body. A hot and cold flush as his fingers tangled into the hair at the nape of Eddie’s neck. It was gross. It was, kissing like this. But Richie liked it. He liked feeling Eddie’s tongue in his mouth, liked licking behind his perfect teeth.

As if in shock, his body seemed to finally kick into gear. Richie felt an all too familiar heat in the pit of his stomach. He knew what it meant and he hated it, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop. It was only when Eddie made this tiny, breathless noise, that Richie pulled away. It was abrupt, he knew, and Eddie looked dazed and confused.

“What—“ Eddie began, and Richie swallowed, his brain working too fast and too slow all at once. His body burned. He wanted this. He wanted this so much. He wanted this too much. He wanted to pin Eddie to his bed and kiss him all over. “Did I do something wrong? Didn’t you like it—?”

“No— I just— we should stop now. I um…” Richie felt a deep shame start to creep up inside of him, tendrils curling and sinking and cutting in. He shifted, and Eddie seemed to remain confused as Richie purposefully avoided eye contact. He couldn’t look at him, not after this had happened. God, what if Eddie freaked out on him over it? He needed to come up with some excuse pronto. “I um—“

“Oh.” Eddie’s eyes widened in realisation, and Richie chanced a look upwards. His cheeks were touched with a soft pink blush, and Richie had to look away again because he didn’t want to tell Eddie he was beautiful. “Oh. It’s… It’s okay, Richie.”

Richie felt like he was going to cry from embarrassment, his throat closing up as he shifted to try and conceal himself and make things less awkward. “Let’s go order pizza or something. It’s been a pretty boring afternoon, huh?”

Nothing had happened. Richie could taste Eddie on his lips and in his mouth, but it was nothing. It was good that it was nothing. Nothing was safe. _Nothing_ was safe. They could both exist in nothing. Floating between something and somewhere and someone, where the world didn’t want to look too hard, and they could be forgotten and left behind.


	13. hands; 1990

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eddie was angry about a lot. He was quite possibly the angriest person Richie had ever met. He could see it in his eyes, and hear it in his voice, and feel it in moments like these. Eddie had been angry since the very start.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so so much for all your support guys.   
> I will be posting a playlist for this fic on my twitter soon, so if you want some tunes make sure to check it out at @starcatarchive!

For as long as Richie could remember, his mother had told him that nothing was as much of a burden as a secret was. Maggie and Wentworth had raised Richie to see the value in being truthful and open about what was happening in his life. And for the longest time he had been. He had had no secrets; he had told his parents everything and anything. He had lived without fear of much -- blissfully ignorant of how painful it was to hold unspoken words so tightly against your chest your fingers would go numb. Sure, he would get scolded whenever he did something naughty or stupid or reckless (which was quite often), but there was no hidden shame gnawing away at Richie’s insides until it felt like he was completely hollow.

The first secret Richie ever kept was when he was 8 years old. It was a memory that lingered in the back of his mind ever since it had happened, one that came to the surface on occasion, but he purposefully would never let himself dwell on. He wasn’t sure why, but it was something that had always deeply unsettled him. He was pretty sure it was solely because it was the first real thing he had purposefully never told anyone about -- the first unsaid burden on his shoulders. Richie had never been good at knocking before opening doors. It was just one of those social etiquette things he had never truly gotten the hang of, as he was too busy jumping from task to task to task to remember there were certain things people were expected to do. After school one day, he had forgotten some important homework in his desk. Usually, he would have just left it there and headed straight home, but his mom had gotten upset at him the night before for not doing the work that was required of him after she had received a serious phone call from the school. So, on that particular day, Richie had turned around and walked all the way back despite nearly having reached his house. It was a pretty lengthy process, so by the time Richie had gotten back to the school, the staff carpark was dotted with a few cars and all the students had evaporated. It was as if no one had ever been there and it was considerably eerie for him to walk back through the corridors. He tried to make it quick, the sound of his sneakers squeaking against the linoleum bouncing off the walls as he made his way to the classroom. Once he got there, Richie was already bristling with irritation at having to come all the way back there for a couple of stupid sheets of paper, so he opened the door and walked right in without knocking. Richie hadn’t even considered for a second that anybody would even be there, but he had been wrong. His teacher, Mr. Tate who was married to Mrs. Tate who lived a few streets down and went to the same church Richie’s mom did her craft group at, was still there. And so was another teacher, Mr. Sampson who taught gym for the older kids and who seemed pretty angry all the time. In an instant, Richie knew he had walked in on something he shouldn’t have. He realised that he should have knocked, and he just stood there, trying to think of what he was supposed to do. Mr. Tate and Mr. Sampson had been having what seemed to be a very intense conversation, having been standing very close to one another. Richie barging in had obviously surprised them too, as they both stepped away from the other and looked at him with shock. Mr. Sampson had had his hand on Mr. Tate’s arm and let go abruptly. There were a few beats of silence as they all stared at one another, Richie expecting to get yelled at for his rudeness and inconsiderate behaviour.

“I’m um… I’m sorry. I forgot my homework.” Richie had stammered, but he was rooted in place. He forgot how to move; his hands tight around his backpack straps on his shoulders. Mr. Tate stepped towards him, looking back towards Mr. Sampson.

“That’s okay, Richard. Don’t worry about your homework. You came all this way. I’ll drive you home.” He had offered, and Richie was confused but didn’t argue. Mr. Tate had always been so nice to him. He had always had a soft voice, and a nice smile, and he was always understanding. He had figured that Mr. Sampson had been upset and yelling at Mr. Tate when Richie had walked in. But when they talked quietly between themselves, and Mr. Tate gently squeezed Mr. Sampson’s shoulder before grabbing his things and taking his car keys, Richie realised that maybe no one had been angry after all.

His teacher had walked Richie through to the car park without saying anything. They didn’t say a word until they were both seated in the car, and he offered Richie some gum. He could feel the air was serious and heavy and adult – and he held his tongue as Mr. Tate began the drive towards his house. He was still expecting a lecture on rudeness and social rules.

“Mr. Sampson and I are _very good friends,_ Richie. We’re planning a surprise party for my wife together.” Mr. Tate said as he drove. He didn’t look at Richie when he spoke, and he knew he was lying because Mrs. Tate’s birthday was _last week_ and his mom had gone to her house for it. Richie didn’t say anything because he didn’t want Mr. Tate to tell his mom that he had forgotten his homework again and had rudely walked in without knocking because he was sure he would get grounded. “I need you to not tell anyone about today, okay? Not anyone, because it’ll ruin the surprise. And you don’t wanna ruin the surprise, Richie. That would be no fun at all. Look, let’s cut a deal.” Mr. Tate reached into his glove compartment and rifled around, pulling out his wallet. He opened it with one hand, hastily pulling out a few crumpled dollar bills. “If you promise not to tell anyone, I’ll give you this money and I’ll call your mom and tell her to forget about homework for the year. It’s what… five dollars?”

Richie knew in his gut that it was wrong. It was wrong to keep secrets, and it was wrong to accept these sorts of deals. But it was a deal he couldn’t really turn down. Five dollars was a heap of money, and Richie was already in trouble with regards to his homework. Besides, it wasn’t a big deal. Mr. Tate was a nice man, so even if it wasn’t a party, it would be something equally as good. Like a gift.

“Deal.” Richie took the money, and he waved goodbye as he was dropped off home. He told his mom he was doing some extra work at school with Mr. Tate to catch up in class when she inevitably asked about his whereabouts. Despite this, and his logic that seemed infallible to an eight-year-old boy, the money felt like led in his pocket as he sat at the dinner table that night. He could never look at Mrs. Tate in the eye and he wasn’t even sure why.

_Mr. Tate and Mr. Sampson were having an affair._  
This thought came to Richie out of the blue whilst he was lying in bed trying to sleep but failing. It was something that seemed to make sense, even though he had never even realised it before that point. But as Richie laid and stared at the blinking digital 00:00 across his bedroom, it just… clicked into place. _Realisation_. The first secret he had ever kept. The first lie he had ever told. It was ironic, because as luck would have it, the biggest secrets Richie would have to bear for the rest of his life would be of the same type. Except he had become Mr. Sampson or Mr. Tate. Hiding in plain sight. Bargaining existence, stealing moments, and hoping they could live an entire life behind the curtains. He knew that there was no happy ending to that story. That Mr. and Mrs. Tate ended up moving towns and Mr. Sampson stopped teaching at Richie’s elementary school and Richie grew up following the script for the same old story that was hopeless from the very start. A series of missed opportunities and fractured connections. Maybe he would get married. Maybe he would have kids. Maybe he would become old and bitter as he watched the world pass him by. Be yourself, they would always say, but _not like that_.

In the time following Bowers beating the absolute living shit out of Eddie and himself, Richie started to understand Mr. Tate and Mr. Sampson more and more. It was hard not to, with the way things started to unfold. Richie felt as if his whole life was filled to the brim with secrets. Not only the secret of his wants and desires, or the alcohol that he had hidden away, or the fact that he was in love with his best friend. His mom had once said that two people couldn’t keep a secret – and Richie really hoped, he really did, that she was wrong. Because he and Eddie had secrets too. Secrets that they both agreed, out loud and by implication, no one could ever know. Some of them were relatively harmless: like the fight with Bowers, and watching movies that had mature ratings for violence, and trying out drinking alcohol in the clubhouse, and spending money on things they weren’t supposed to be spending money on. Some of them, however, were the type of secrets that even _they_ didn’t talk about. The kiss in the forest, _Jaws_ , the photobooth photos, the kiss after the fight. Those secrets Richie didn’t even let _himself_ think about sometimes in fear that someone could read minds or something. He knew that those secrets were the type that his mother had warned him about. He knew that they were the sorts of secrets that could cause damage for both Eddie and himself. That if anyone were to find out, they’d be forced to never see one another again and Richie was sure his parents would force him to live in church for the rest of his life so he would be ‘fixed’. Maybe Eddie would get sent back to his ma’s house in Boston, where he would waste away into nothing, where his mother loved him so much she was smothering him to death with it and knew it.

And yet, Richie didn’t stop it. Because he couldn’t. He knew the risks. He knew what could happen. He knew everything. And yet, he just… let it happen. He let it happen because he wanted it. He wanted every moment, despite the risk, because for once he felt understood. He felt unashamed. He didn’t feel wrong in those moments because it felt natural. He could just… _be._

Sometimes nothing happened. Sometimes, they would just hang out and things would be the way they always were. The way they _should have been_. Even then, when they were just Richie and Eddie, fourteen and loud and stupid and killing time in any way they could manage, there were moments. Split seconds. Touches, fleeting. Glances, words. Tiny messages sent from one another that nobody else would ever understand or pick up on. Richie himself didn’t even really understand them, but they were electrifying all the same. It was like the dam holding it all back was starting to crack. The self restraint Richie had been enforcing since he was old enough to recognise the need for it was starting to bend. One moment, they would be making fart jokes or having loogie competitions with the Losers or screaming at one another in the arcade – and the next, they were behind those curtains again.

Mrs. S was often out of the house for hours at a time. And even when she wasn’t, she wouldn’t ever interrupt Eddie and Richie if they were in his bedroom. Because _why would she_? They were just boys being boys, as they had always been. Those were the times that the dam cracked and crumbled. The times they _did not talk about_. It started off as just kissing. A few, here and there – chaste and tentative, brows furrowed, and eyes closed as tight as possible. Soon, it began to unwind further; they would kiss like they had after Bowers – mouths open and hot, trying to navigate the new brand of intimacy that felt both natural and alien all at once. It was just _practice_ , they would say. _Practice_ , as they perfected it more and more, Richie’s glasses folded neatly on the bedside table and his breath minty fresh. _Practice,_ as they pushed the boundaries further and further – as hands started to tentatively roam. Over shoulders, ghosting over hips, trailing over stomachs and resting on sternums. It never went further than kissing, and even then, it was still scandalous. Even then, Richie would sometimes leave feeling like his head was too heavy for his body, and he would stand in the shower and think about how pretty Eddie looked when his hair was a little messy and his lips got a little swollen. Richie knew that Eddie felt it too. He saw it and felt it, and it made him feel a little less disgusting that his body was such a traitor. _Practice_. It was only _practice_.

*

Mrs. S was out for the day again, and like clockwork, Eddie invited Richie over. Or, rather, Richie saw Mrs. S leave while he was smoking a cigarette on the porch after only a handful of hours of sleep the night beforehand, and he knew the drill. He waited a while to make sure she wasn’t coming back, finishing his smoke off before he crushed it to absolute shit against the concrete and kicked it into the rosebush. He had started to always keep a small tin of breath-mints in his pocket, and like reflex, he popped one into his mouth. He crunched it down to dust between his teeth before he jumped down the steps and waked briskly across the road. If anyone were to look, and think for more than a few moments, it would be obvious. But this town had a habit of looking the other way, and Richie was becoming increasingly confident that he could talk his way out of anything. Later that day, the Losers had plans to hang out at Ben’s place to listen to music and eat pizza and take turns on the two Gameboys they had between the bunch of them. Richie wondered how easy it would be to act as if he hadn’t seen Eddie earlier that day. That he hadn’t been skating his fingers across the plane of his lower tummy, trying not to let Eddie’s tongue get cut on his braces.

He knocked on the door twice before he let himself in, toeing his sneakers off at the door as he always did. He pushed his hair out of his face, shoving his hands into his pockets. He quickly puffed a breath into his hand so he could see if his breath smelt, which it didn’t thanks to his newly acquired mint habit.

“Hey, Eds, I saw your g’ma’s out again. What is it today, Bingo again? Or is she seein’ her friend Martha or something from knitting club?” He called out as he walked into the small kitchen. Eddie was sitting on the barstool, a glass of orange juice and a slice of toast placed neatly on a plate in front of him. Both of which were barely touched. Eddie looked up at Richie in what seemed to almost be surprise, though a small smile curled up the corners of his mouth.

“Oh. Hey, Rich. Yeah— I think it’s Bingo today.” Eddie sounded a bit vague and distant. He looked tired and pale, his eyes heavy with slightly dark circles. Obviously, he hadn’t slept well the night before. “Sorry, I’m… It’s a bit of a weird day today. You know how it is. I forgot to refill a prescription and I feel pretty sick.” Eddie seemed to almost read his mind, and Richie leaned against the counter with a shrug. He saw the cat, Nela, wind herself around the legs of Eddie’s seat, staring at Richie skeptically. He made a face at her.

“Should I go?” Richie asked, and Eddie shook his head. He looked at the orange juice, turning it in his hand as if he were inspecting it for any imperfections.

“No. No, I don’t want you to.” Eddie looked like shit, and Richie had half a mind to tell him to go lie down and sleep or something. But he knew that that wouldn’t fly with Eddie, so he just hummed and nodded, chewing the dead skin free from his bottom lip. “I’ve missed you, anyway.”

“I saw you yesterday for the whole day.” Richie pointed out before he could think of any better response, and Eddie pursed his lips and shrugged. There was a beat before Richie followed himself up. “I um… I missed you too.” It felt strangely intimate to say. More intimate than kissing or touching. It felt almost like a confession of sorts, and it made his stomach tight and his face hot and he leaned over to steal Eddie’s OJ to take a drink from it to try and diffuse his discomfort. Eddie smiled, poking at the slice of toast in front of him in clear disinterest.

“We can get pizza or something later if you want.” Richie offered, and Eddie hummed noncommittally with a half-hearted movement that seemed to be a sort of shrug.

“Maybe. I’m not really hungry today.” Eddie pushed the plate away from him. Richie knew that even if Eddie wasn’t hungry, he had to eat. But he also knew that maybe it wasn’t his business. Eddie would tell him, most probably, that he didn’t understand and that his medication effected his appetite, or that he would eat later. It was just one of those things – just like when Eddie would smell alcohol on Richie’s breath, and he wouldn’t say a word.

Usually, they would only touch in the safety of Eddie’s bedroom, where somehow even the eyes of God were averted, and nothing really counted. But on that day, Eddie kissed Richie as soon as he slipped off the barstool. In the kitchen, it felt a lot different. A lot more dangerous, like someone could walk in at any moment despite all the curtains being drawn and the door, deadbolted. It had caught Richie off guard. He had been about to ask Eddie if he wanted to sit down on the sofa or something, or if he wanted to chill outside while he smoked another cigarette and gossiped about things they heard their guardians talk about in stage-whispers. But instead, Eddie grabbed Richie’s shirt and pulled him forward, and his mouth felt like it was bruising as he kissed him hard. It felt almost angry. Eddie was angry about a lot. He was quite possibly the angriest person Richie had ever met. He could see it in his eyes, and hear it in his voice, and feel it in moments like these. Eddie had been angry since the very start.

Somehow, they stumbled into the bedroom. Eddie was half pushing and shoving Richie in the direction, telling him to hurry up as if there was a time limit. That made Richie feel nervous that maybe there was. Maybe Eddie was expecting someone. Yet he didn’t ask; he practically fell into the bedroom he had come to know all too well, and Eddie closed the door behind him. He waited a moment, seeming to think things over, before he locked it too. Just for safety, Richie thought. _Just in case._

“Take your shirt off.” Eddie said, his voice loud and declarative and Richie felt his eyebrows raise right up into his hairline, standing in the middle of the room like an idiot. He looked down at himself, and up at Eddie, who had put his hands on his hips and was staring at him with a fire-hot intensity behind his eyes.

“ _What_?” Richie asked, unsure if he had even heard him correctly.

“I asked you to take your shirt off. I will if you will.” Eddie’s voice wavered a little then, and Richie could tell that the firmness in his voice and the _sureness_ were bullshit. He swallowed the lump in his throat, chancing a glance at himself in the sliver of mirror he could see in Eddie’s bathroom. Taking off shirts was new. He had no idea why Eddie would want him to take off his shirt at all. Richie wasn’t sexy; he had acne on his back and shoulders, and he had a bit of chest-hair that was starting to grow on his sternum, and he had a weird distribution of fat across his body. His stomach and hips and pecs were a little too soft, something he felt insanely insecure about. However, Eddie said he would too. And he hated how much that appealed to him, so much so that he found himself shrugging off his button down before grabbing the hem of his ATARI shirt and pulling it over his head. Eddie looked, and he didn’t say much – instead, his jaw tightened a little, and his cheeks went a little pink up near the apples. “Don’t—don’t say anything, okay? Don’t look.” Eddie walked past Richie and got onto the bed. Richie stood there, shirtless and awkward, not entirely sure what in the ever-loving fuck was going to happen next. “Sit down, _fuckhead_.” Eddie rolled his eyes at him and snorted a laugh, to which Richie flipped him off and sat opposite him. Close enough that their knees were touching just that little bit, and Eddie’s hands were trembling just a little as he awkwardly pulled his polo shirt up and off too. Richie barely had time to even look at him – which he thought was pretty unfair because Eddie had stared at _him_ for _at least_ a minute or two – before Eddie’s hands settled on his naked shoulders and he was pulled forward and Eddie kissed him again. Over and over. It was less angry now, a lot slower. Practiced, as he licked languidly into Richie’s mouth. After a small while of that, which left Richie feeling breathless and like he was on the brink of some sort of heart attack, Eddie pulled away. He licked his lips as he did so, his usually chocolate eyes black with dilated pupils.

“Can you… can you lie down?” He breathed, and Richie could barely hear him over the blood rushing through his ears. He nodded hastily, doing just that – lying down on Eddie’s bed. He had the softest pillow in the world, Richie was sure of it. And it smelt like Eddie, and he tried to think of a way he could possibly steal it and keep it all to himself. He wasn’t exactly sure what Eddie’s plans were, but he found that he was more than okay with them as he straddled his hips and lowered himself down – their chests flush against one other. Richie’s whole body was on fire, and he knew Eddie could probably feel that he was getting a little _too into things_ , but he was kinda sure that Eddie was too. Usually, that would mean they would cut things off and watch a movie or order food or listen to music or go somewhere. But today, Eddie didn’t suggest any of that. Instead, he propped himself up just enough to look at Richie and murmur a soft –

“Is this okay? I’ve been—I’ve wanted to try this for a while. I think it’ll be good.”

And Richie croaked, and his voice cracked as he breathed out a gentle –

“Yeah.” And nothing else because his brain had disintegrated into mush.

Nothing else happened beyond that. They laid like that – close and sweaty, and kissed. Over and over and over, until their lips were both red and sore from it all. Eddie’s hands had ghosted over Richie’s chest and arms before he eventually was brave enough to properly touch them. Richie didn’t get the appeal, but he didn’t complain, because he was allowed to run his hands down the plane of Eddie’s back. He had rested one hand on the small of it and had even been granted permission to grab his ass. It all barely felt real; like Richie was daydreaming all of it. He wasn’t sure how much time had passed. If it had only been ten or twenty minutes or hours. He didn’t know what time it was, and he found that he didn’t want to know. After one final kiss, Eddie laid down beside him on the bed, and they were silent.

Richie stared up at the perfectly white ceiling above him. He didn’t look at Eddie. Instead, he listened. He listened to the sounds of the birds outside the window. He listened to the occasional car passing. He listened to the blood pumping through his veins. He listened to Eddie’s soft breaths beside him. They were still touching – side to side. Richie couldn’t help but think that it was almost as if they were dead. Here they were, lying on a bed together. If they were to get caught, they were both dead boys walking. Fuck, they already were _now_. The world outside continued, and Richie wanted to just fall into this moment forever. He wanted to sink into Eddie’s mattress and disappear, suffocate on it in a beautiful type of death. Richie’s brain came to him slowly, settling down like feathers falling through air. When he dared to chance a look at Eddie, he could see that he was crying.

Richie had seen Eddie cry quite a few times. He had seen him cry in a whole manner of different ways. Loud and messy, hysterical, panicked. He had seen him cry from sadness and anger and happiness and things in between. But he hadn’t seen him cry like this many times; silent, tears falling from the corners of his eyes and down his temples and into his ears.

“Eddie?” Richie hated breaking the silence that felt almost comforting around them. Eddie didn’t respond, closing his eyes instead. The tears continued to fall, sliding down his blemish-less skin without a sound. “Eddie, what’s—what’s up? Hey, what’s goin’ on?” Richie frowned as he propped himself up just a little. Enough to look at Eddie properly, who only closed his eyes tighter.

“I’m… I’m sorry.” Eddie’s words were quiet. Richie was sure he wouldn’t have been able to understand them if he hadn’t been able to see his lips move.

“For what, Eds? You didn’t do anything wrong.” Richie wanted to shake him. He wanted to get it out of him, pry him open and peek inside. Eddie’s breath shuddered, his shoulders shaking a little, and that’s when he made the first noise that Richie could recognise as a near sob. Raw, like it had been lying dormant in his chest for quite some time at that point.

“I just—I am. I’m sorry, Rich.” Eddie’s voice was shaky and ragged, rubbed raw with emotion that seeped into Richie’s pores and made him feel like he was going to start crying too. But he couldn’t. He had to be stronger than that. “Please—please, say it’s okay. I know it’s… I know it’s not. But just… tell me that it’s okay. And that you forgive me.”

“Eds, I don’t wanna say that if I don’t know what the fuck you’re—” Richie began, but he cut himself off. He looked at Eddie then. Vulnerable, unable to look at Richie in the face as he cried on his bed. He wondered how often he cried here alone, just like this. Richie cried a lot by himself too. He cried for a lot of reasons, and sometimes for no reason at all. But he had a feeling Eddie had every reason in the world to cry, and that if he were Eddie, he simply wouldn’t be able to stop. “It’s okay, Eddie. It’s okay, everything is okay. And I forgive you, even if you didn’t do a thing wrong.” Richie remembered all those years ago, when Eddie had been heading back to Boston and had told him about some things at the railroad. He remembered holding his hand then, and while they weren’t kids now – they were older, and things were a lot different, and they wouldn’t ever be the same again – he took Eddie’s hand in his and intertwined their fingers. He half expected Eddie to pull away, but he didn’t. He held onto Richie’s hand as tightly as he could, tight enough that he could feel the beating of his heart. It was as fast as a rabbit’s, or a hummingbird’s wings.

Eddie continued to cry quietly beside Richie, his shoulders trembling. He could tell he was trying to be as quiet as possible, though sometimes little sniffles managed to pull through. Richie just held his hand, and he let himself finally _look_. He hadn’t had a chance to before, and he had seen Eddie quite a few times at the quarry in a similar way. But at the quarry, Richie forced his glances to be fleeting. He didn’t have an opportunity to let himself try and memorise what he could of Eddie’s body. He was vastly different to Richie. He didn’t have much acne, and he didn’t have hair on his chest. He had a smattering of countless freckles across his shoulders, a mole on one of his collarbones. He was slender and didn’t have Richie’s weird proportions, and he had a bit of underarm hair but nowhere near as much as Richie had. He thought Eddie was beautiful – small, but strong. The only thing that caught his eye, however, felt like he had swallowed a bunch of razor-sharp stones.

Richie knew he ought to not know what those were. But he did because he had them too. His were different – cigarette burns or matches. Eddie had always said that the small collection of linear scars at the top of his shoulders were from medical procedures. White scarring that puckered ever so slightly. Richie had believed him; partially because he didn’t want to look for too long, and partially because he had no reason to think otherwise. But as Eddie laid there, he noticed that there were a few more now. He noticed the way his shorts were pushed down just a little to expose his hip, lower than they usually rode – and there were some there, too. Richie couldn’t help himself as he pushed the band of his shorts down just a little more, seeing more of those same, precise marks on his skin. Eddie’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. His eyes stayed closed, and his cheeks burned red, and Richie had to swallow as hard as he could to try and stop himself from bursting out into tears too.

“Don’t,” Was all he said, and Richie didn’t. He let Eddie push his hand away from his waistband. And Richie collapsed beside him on the bed, closing his eyes too, and praying to God and Jesus and whoever was listening that those scars were not real and they didn’t mean what he thought they did even though _he knew. He knew. He knew_. He wanted to take them away. And he wanted to take Eddie’s pain away, too. All of it. He would take it into himself if he could; but he knew he was too weak to be any form of cure. He squeezed Eddie’s hand as tight as he could, trying to focus on his breathing. “I’m sorry, Richie. I’m sorry. I don’t know—I don’t know. I just… today isn’t a good day. It’s just a really… really bad day.”

“It’s okay. Not every day has to be a good day. I have a lot of bad days. More bad days than good days. You just gotta get through ‘em, spaghetti.” Richie tried to sound stronger than he felt. Eddie didn’t respond straight away, and Richie heard the sheets crinkle and shift before he felt Eddie’s arms wrap around him. He hid his face into Richie’s arm and chest, and Richie doubted that was comfortable and he probably smelt bad, but Eddie didn’t seem to care. He just stayed there – his tears running down Richie’s skin and onto the bed.

“My momma called me when I woke up today,” Eddie spoke, his voice smothered by Richie’s body. He could feel the way it echoed against his flesh and bones, absorbed into him. “I wish I had… Your mom is so nice, Richie. I wish I had your family. You don’t—I know it sounds so weird. But I wish I had your family. I wish I had my dad; I wish I had a mom like yours. I love my mom, but I wish she’d stop—I wish she’d just stop hurting me all the time. I wish she didn’t scare me, and I wish she didn’t fuck with my head, and I wish she didn’t hate parts of me so much. I wish she didn’t have that boyfriend; I wish she didn’t hate my grandma. Your mom is so nice, Richie. Your parents love you so much. My momma only loves me when it works for her. When I’m _her_ Eddie. Not _Eddie_ Eddie.” Richie’s mouth felt dry as Eddie’s words tumbled out in a barely coherent jumble. He didn’t know what to say. He knew his parents loved him, but he also knew that that was because they didn’t _know_. He knew he was lucky, and that he was selfish for the resentment he felt. He felt shitty because Eddie wanted something so simple, something Richie took for granted and didn’t even realise it half the time. “Your mom likes to do things with you, and she asks you questions about your day, and she likes your friends. My mom doesn’t let me have friends, and she doesn’t let me leave the house, and she screams at me if I don’t do or say what she wants me to, and she—she lies to me all the time. She lies to me and tells me I’m sick, and I don’t even know if I am anymore. If I even was in the first place. She used to tell me that for medication to work, she would have to take it too. She’d tell me all these things and I used to believe them but now I know that she was lying to me the whole time. I want a mom who loves me, Richie. No matter what. No matter if I’m sick or not or if I—if I—” Eddie’s whole body shuddered against him, hot tears beginning once more. Richie stared up at the ceiling, his arm going numb beneath Eddie’s body and yet he didn’t move a muscle. He felt if he did, that he would disappear into nothing. Or that it would break the balance of the universe. “I want to be normal, Richie. I wanna be like you and the Losers. That’s all I want. But instead, I… I have this whole stupid fucked up situation with my family, and I have conditions I don’t understand, and I’m all… I’m all messed up and screwed up inside and I feel like I’m going crazy, Richie. I feel like I’m going fucking crazy and there’s nothing I can do about it because no one will ever understand. Sometimes it just gets so much, it gets so much, and I just want to take all my pills or jump from the tallest rock near the quarry and into the ravine or just fucking— rip myself apart because I hate myself and I hate what I am and I’m so tired of it. I’m so tired, Richie. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Richie didn’t know what to say. He wanted to apologise to Eddie too. He wanted to comfort him, and to tell him that in some ways he did understand. He wanted to take him far away from this. He wanted to tell him that things got better, even if he wasn’t so sure if they did. He wanted to tell him that he loved him, he loved him, he loved him more than anything in the entire world and that he always would. He didn’t know how to say any of that. And he was scared. So instead, Richie held him as he cried. 

“You have me.” He breathed into his hair as Eddie shook and trembled like a leaf or a small animal, and as Richie wished he could go back in time and fix all of this. “You’ll always have me, Eddie. Swear on my life. No matter what, or where I am – I’ll always be here as long as you are. You just gotta stick around, okay? ‘Cause tomorrow just might be the best day of your life. You know – they might replace Harrison Ford with you in the next Indiana Jones movie. Or you’ll win the lottery. Or—or everything will just… _be okay one day._ But I’m bettin’ on the Indiana Jones thing. You’re movie star material, spaghetti-head.”

Eddie laughed, and he held Richie’s hand in his, and they stayed like that until their bodies felt numb and limitless.


	14. R + E; 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All roads led to the same destination in his brain, a one-track mind. All he ever wanted was to be seen and understood by Eddie; he had been deprived of him for so long that he wanted to take advantage of every moment could spend with him. Just in case one day, for whatever reason, those moments would come to an end. He knew it was coming, but it was only a matter of when.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in this chapter. It's a mammoth and I've been busy with a new job + holiday season.  
> Happy Holidays everybody! Stay safe and be well.  
> Much love.
> 
> This chapter contains sexual content in case you would rather skip it.

For the first few months following Eddie’s permanent move to Derry, Richie found himself looking out his window every morning. Like clockwork, he would wake up and be convinced that this was all a dream and that he would see the familiar red car parked in the driveway of Mrs. S’ little house. He had vividly imagined scenario after scenario; Sonia Kaspbrak, the she-devil, pulling Eddie into the small vehicle like it was the pits of fiery hell, Eddie screaming and kicking the entire way and Richie’s arms and legs never working well enough to be able to save him. Sonia was twice as large as she was in person, her teeth long and needlepoint, her fingernails curled into sharp, yellow talons. Sometimes, Richie would be able to save him. But most times, he would only be able to watch as he was whisked away into the void that lived beyond eyesight of the ‘ _Welcome to Derry, Maine_ ’ sign. Whenever he had these sorts of dreams, Richie would wake up in a cold sweat. Run to the window, thrust open the blinds, squint through bleary-eyed vision to be met with an empty driveway on a quiet street. _No Sonia. No monster. No red car._

Richie had expected that having Eddie living in Derry would solve all his problems. He had this convoluted belief that the small, pocket-rocket boy was like some sort of cure-all. That it would be like summer forever, that all his worries and pain would dissipate into nothing. That wasn’t the case. In fact, Eddie living in Derry only seemed to make his issues worse and add entirely new ones. Of course, he would never ever wish for it to be any other way, it just… _complicated things_. And when he thought about it, it made sense that it would. Eddie’s summer visits had always been controlled. There had always been a time-limit, an expiration. Richie could always rely on the fact that he would leave at some point, and he could spend an entire year gathering the pieces of himself back up and putting them back together haphazardly with whatever shitty craft-glue he could find. Now, there was no time to do that. Eddie was there, and he was _always there_ – there was no time for Richie to try and scavenge some sort of damage control. The boy he had been in love with since what felt like forever was now a permanent fixture in his everyday life; all the safety nets, the barriers, the fail-safes that he previously had in place to make sure everybody would be none the wiser over the summer had to be rapidly expanded and adjusted to _24-fucking-7, 365_. He couldn’t fuck up for a moment and that was a new pressure he had never anticipated. Richie was constantly overanalysing every movement he made, every word that left his mouth whenever he was in the presence of others. Even with the Losers, he often felt as if he was following a script or some kind of act. Loud and boisterous Richie, obnoxious Richie who told bad jokes and did the weird voices and never let things get too deep. The only time he felt as if he could let his guard down a little was when he was with Eddie or completely alone, and even then, he still sometimes wondered if he even knew how to be the _real_ Richie anymore. The lines were starting to blur, the boundaries overlapping, and Richie wasn’t sure where he began, and the lies ended.

The first year following Eddie’s relocation felt as if it flew by. In some ways, not much happened. If Richie were to ask anybody in his immediate personal life, he was sure he would get the same answer – the summer had been beautiful, and the winter too, in its own way. But for Richie, it felt as if things just… happened, and never _stopped_ happening. Slow enough that he barely noticed that they happened at all really, but when he looked back it was blindingly obvious. Hindsight was 20/20 and Richie felt as if he was always in way, way over his head.

His body had begun to change significantly. His acne had begun to finally clear up to a manageable point as he seemed to just wake up one morning significantly less greasy than he had been for years now. His jaw had begun to square out like his shoulders, his dad had finally removed his braces, and while he still absolutely _no_ self-esteem at least he had grown out of looking like a hideous caricature of a geek. He also was still taller than any of the Losers, who all had begun to develop into young adults themselves. Baby faces were slimming into definition, and before Richie knew it, they were looking less and less like kids every day. Much to his pleasure, his voice had finally dropped for the most part, and he was the most capable of facial hair in his group. There was a sweet sort of karma in the fact that the rest of his friends had to now deal with what he had had to deal with earlier, a satisfaction in seeing their suffering and confusion. When puberty had initially begun for Richie, it had been something he had been deeply ashamed of and had been just another thing other kids would make fun of him over. Now it was an accomplishment to his peers that he was more of a _man_ than most of the other guys in his age group, and even in the year above. He would be lying if he said he didn’t realise that girls had begun to notice him more because of that fact. He wasn’t particularly attractive, but the sense that he was more ‘mature’ than his counterparts seemed to give him some sort of weird upper hand. He pretended not to realise nor be all that interested in the concept of a relationship; even going so far as to making up some apparent weird belief system in which being monogamous would impair his ability to undertake all the experiences life had to offer. As if he had innumerable sexual conquests lined up, countless women who wanted a chance with him that he was all too eager to oblige. And in a way, it wasn’t a complete lie – he just omitted the fact that he was much more invested in trying to ascertain if any _guys_ looked at him in the same way.

It was weird to have Eddie at his school. Not only did Richie have to figure out and navigate the intricacies of high school, including the social dynamics that had considerably shifted over the break, but Eddie was suddenly sitting right there in his classes or passing him in the hallway or eating his lunch with him. Some days were easier to deal with than others; it was fun having Eddie around to joke around with, an essential component to the Losers that had long been missing during the schoolyear. But other days, the distraction Eddie offered overrode Richie’s entire system. He would have to force himself from being _too much_ and _too obvious_ on those days. Those were the times he was particularly obnoxious in other ways, trying to divert his need for Eddie, in every sense of the word, by making jokes in class that got him sent out into the hall, or even purposefully picking fights with Bowers. Just seeing Eddie’s shoulders, or his slender neck, or his legs drove Richie insane. Hearing his smart-assed comments, seeing him chew absently on the end of his pencil, the way he would lick his lips and furrow his brow whenever he was concentrating real hard. Richie wanted to kiss him stupid, but that wasn’t appropriate in an academic setting let alone really at _all_.

Unlike the rest of the Losers (except for Beverly), Eddie had remained graceful throughout the entire duration of puberty. His voice didn’t even really break all that much – for a few weeks, it had been wobbly and crackly and squeaky, but it evened out. Like a flower, he blossomed and bloomed. He grew taller, and his body broadened out, and his face had started to become full of all of Richie’s favourite angles. He was the definition of a pretty boy – he was slender but was slightly muscular in certain areas, like his legs and his arms. Richie had overheard about countless of girls at school who had crushes on Eddie, who had thought he was a total heartthrob. He was – Richie agreed wholeheartedly. But much to his selfish delight, Eddie was oblivious and uncaring of this attention. He was radiant, and brilliant, and Richie was selfish and horrible and he always had been; and he wanted to keep him to himself for as long as he could live and breathe. He was smitten with the fact that he had kissed Eddie more times than he could count – even if no one would ever know, he was always going to be there. At least he had that much to quell his yearning conscience.

As anticipated, Bowers did have it out for Eddie following the initial confrontation. Unlike Richie, his preferential approach to the problem was not to beat him bloody, but rather he was a little more creative. Henry and his Goons loved to yell at Eddie, to purposefully wind him up. They would call him names, make insinuations about him to get under his skin. One time, Patrick Hocksetter had thought it would be hilarious to smack Eddie on the back of the thighs as they were getting changed in the locker rooms. It had been hard enough for the skin to smart bright red and begin to bruise, and Eddie hadn’t cried – even though the tears were there, prickling and angry. He in particular had a unique inclination towards calling Eddie ‘pretty girlyboy’ or ‘pretty boy’ or simply ‘pretty’. Whenever he did as much, it made Richie feel sick to the stomach, like he was filled with hundreds squirming worms. It wasn’t like Patrick was calling Eddie pretty in the way Richie would think. It was in a different way. A violent, malicious way that made the slap to the top of his thighs that much harsher.

On both occasions, Richie had gone home with a bloody nose and a busted lip. On the many more occasions beyond that, Richie was always there to pick up the pieces. Sure, maybe it was when they were alone at times. Maybe there was only so much he could do, because he was a target too and he wasn’t a match against a whole group of guys who rivalled him in size. But he was there, as he always had been. As he always would be. Despite the bullying, Eddie insisted that he liked going to school in Derry. That he was super excited about being able to go to school with his friends. Richie figured that back in Boston, Eddie hadn’t had any friends at all. And to have to deal with being bullied without any friends to be there to pick up the pieces would be enough to drive anybody crazy.

But to be entirely fair, most of the time Richie was convinced he was the crazy one. That he had been utterly insane this entire time. How else could he explain any of it? If he tried to tell anybody that everything in his life seemed to gravitate around Eddie Kaspbrak’s existence, that he was the sun in the centre of Richie’s universe, they would lock him away for good. And maybe it would be for the best if they did. Everything that happened in Richie’s life seemed to come back to that integral point of his consciousness. He looked better now _so maybe Eddie would be attracted to him_. He had no braces _so Eddie would stop cutting his tongue on them_. He had begun learning how to drive _and would fantasise about taking Eddie out for rides in a car he owned, through a city with bright lights and promise to its name_. All roads led to the same destination in his brain, a one-track mind. All he ever wanted was to be seen and understood by Eddie; he had been deprived of him for so long that he wanted to take advantage of every moment could spend with him. Just in case one day, for whatever reason, those moments would come to an end. He knew it was coming, but it was only a matter of _when_.

Maybe when Sonia would arrive in Derry to take back what she thought was hers.

Maybe when Eddie started noticing girls and got a girlfriend.

Maybe when someone figured Richie out – when Eddie figured him out. That Bowers’ taunts hadn’t been all based on lies; he was _a faggot, a homo, a creep, a pervert._

It just really depended on which one happened first, and Richie couldn’t lie to himself that things would remain this way forever. He had tried, as a kid, to will things to say as they were on many occasions. When he felt like nothing could be better than that moment, he would try and speak to the very depths of the universe – appeal to some sort of deity and ask that he would be able to relive that moment over and over and over again.

Obviously, it hadn’t ever worked out for him.

He tried to make the most of what he could, even if he knew it was weirdly obsessive. Even if he knew that by doing that, he could very well be at risk of hitting the precariously balanced domino, setting forward the chain of events that would result in Richie being outed in some way, or Eddie growing out of their relationship in _some way_. Richie would always be there; he had been the instigator for many of Eddie’s first real life experiences beyond shoe-box-life-Boston. But he wanted to stretch out his opportunity until he no longer could. Take risks, push some boundaries, play dangerous games and win dangerous prizes. But it was worth it. It was worth it. His whole body and soul would scream into the heavens that it was _worth it_.

Part of it all felt like Richie was living a double life. And in a way, he was. To the rest of the world and to everybody who knew him, he was the perfect archetype of Richie that he had constructed for them. Out of paper, glue, and tape, he had made a collage of everything he knew people _wanted to see_ , what people were _comfortable with_. He lived that façade and played that role; he lived and breathed that character. Really, it was just another one of his stupid voices, except it never went away. On the flipside, there was another Richie. The Richie hidden behind the puppet construction. The Richie who hated himself so much he couldn’t bare to look at himself in the mirror. Richie who would burn himself with cigarettes and matches, who would purposefully pull out chunks of his own hair, who would pick scabs free from his skin, who purposefully not take care of himself because he _didn’t deserve it_. Richie who drank too much, and he knew he did, and who smoked too much, and he knew he did, and who had started seeing some guy behind the bleachers who could give him little pills in baggies that he would tape to the underside of his desk. Richie who had started to figure out intricate methodologies that would allow him to collect gay porn. Richie who would jerk himself off multiple times a day and sometimes cry afterwards from the shame and guilt that would consume him. Richie who was involved in something with Eddie that he knew he should have stopped long ago, but he couldn’t. He just couldn’t, because he knew this would be the closest thing he would ever get.

Things were getting bad, and he knew it, but he didn’t know what the fuck he could do about it. So he did nothing. He let the two Richies coexist in a parasitic yin-yang, until he finally reached his breaking point; even though he had figured he had reached his breaking point a long, long time prior. He knew drinking was bad. And smoking was bad. And drugs were bad. But he didn’t care, because _he was bad_ anyway, so there was nothing he could do to possibly make it any worse for himself. He had been born into it, destined to be miserable, so he just as well enjoy the ride for what it was worth.

*

1991 was punctuated through and through by the way Richie’s hands felt on Eddie’s skin. It was as if something had possessed him once he had stepped into his fifteenth year. It was as if something inside of him had been awakened, and all he could think about was when he would get the next opportunity to kiss Eddie, to touch him in secret. He felt like a wild animal, salivating over the very thought of him, pawing at him whenever he so much as got the opportunity. He was becoming the werewolf he had been so terrified of as a child; primal and savage in his desires, wanting nothing more than to understand Eddie’s body more than he understood his own. He had it with other guys too, not just Eddie – he found himself lusting more and more. Shame burnt beside it in the pit of his gut as he would let his mind wander and his eyes drift over muscular arms and strong calves covered in thick hair. But it was always the worst with Eddie, because he was the most beautiful of them all. A sinful staple of the perfect specimen in Richie’s eyes.

Their relationship was something strange, and something they never spoke of. A tradition, a ritual of lost and missing communication. It was an unspoken agreement between them. Just friends helping friends out – besides, the education they got on intimacy was lacking in all departments, so they were really just _doing each other a favour_ (or at least that’s how it was framed). For months, they just kissed. They became experts at it, scholars in the art. Richie had the roadmap of Eddie’s mouth imprinted on the surface of his brain. He knew his teeth, his tongue, his taste. They would hide themselves away in Eddie’s room, or in Richie’s room if his family was away. On a few occasions, they were daring, and they met up at the clubhouse where they tangled up in the hammock in a mess of awkward limbs as their lips bruised. After the initial dismissal of the shirts, they started to push the boundaries. It became just an additional step. Richie would toss his shirt wherever it would land, and Eddie would fold it up neatly. Richie counted every freckle on Eddie’s body. He memorised every dip and curve. He never mentioned additional scars, and Eddie returned the favour, because that was just another conversation both were far too terrified to want to have. When they were together like this, time didn’t exist. Derry wasn’t real. There was no hurt. It was just that, there, then, _them._

Eddie was always the brave one between the two of them. He was the one who suggested they try new things. And he was the one who crossed the line first. The barrier broke; shattered like glass. They had been watching a movie on Richie’s bed, and it had ended up as it always seemed to do now. Eddie’s mouth had tasted like chips and soda, and Richie found it oddly hot. They had always ignored the fact that doing this sort of thing always went down the same sort of route – they had never acknowledged that they both got aroused. It made sense, considering bodies did what bodies did. But it wasn’t really _gay_ if they were just doing it as friends, and if they didn’t touch their dicks while they were kissing or anything. But Eddie had other ideas, it seemed.

“Trust me,” Eddie had breathed against Richie’s mouth, as he shifted their bodies. Eddie always moved so eloquently, like a ballet dancer, as he pushed Richie’s legs apart and slotted his thigh between. He had his thick thighs on either side of Richie’s leg too. Richie blinked, beginning to say something only for Eddie to cut him off. “Trust me, Rich. It’ll feel good. It’s not a big deal.”

And it was, it was a big deal to Richie. Because it was always a big deal, because Eddie was a big _fucking_ deal to him. But he had no time to think, because the next thing he knew, Eddie was kissing him again and he was _moving_. Something seemed to shift. The line had been crossed forever. There was no going back – their bodies moved in sync. Their mouths connected, and Richie consumed every beautiful sound that Eddie made. He didn’t even care that he himself was awkward and didn’t sound anywhere near as angelic as his counterpart. Because he could feel Eddie on a different level – he could hear the way his breathing changed, feel the way his hips moved as he rutted against Richie’s thigh. Their bodies moved together like they were built for one another. One of Richie’s hands settled on the small of Eddie’s back, the other tangling in his chestnut curls. His brain had devolved into static. He wasn’t sure if his breaths were his own, or if they were Eddie’s. Every movement sent sparks of white-hot pleasure up his spine, made his toes curl in his socks. It was like when he would jerk himself off to something particularly good, except it felt _better_ even if he wasn’t touching himself.

It didn’t last long. Both of them, only a handful of minutes. The tension and heat in the pit of Richie’s stomach tightened more and more, and he knew he was close. Eddie pulled away enough as he moaned into the corner of Richie’s mouth, his hips pushing forward hard and insistent against Richie’s leg. Richie could only see Eddie’s eyes; the way they were closed so tight that his eyelashes brushed his cheeks, the way his brows pulled together. He was breath-taking in that moment, and Richie came in his pants with a breathless curse.

Eddie had brought a spare change of clothes, and he wasted no time getting into them in Richie’s bathroom before he left for dinner with his grandma. The boundary no longer existed _. It wasn’t a big deal_ – they were just passing time. Practicing. Helping out a friend. It wasn’t a _big deal_ , and Richie was fucking hooked. Line. Sinker. _Gutted_.

*

The first time Richie saw Eddie’s dick was on his sixteenth birthday.

It was a Saturday, and Richie had been very clear with his parents when he had insisted that he didn’t want a huge party or anything. He knew that that came as a relief to them – they didn’t exactly have ‘birthday-party-extravaganza’ money, but Richie figured that they probably felt as if they ought to offer. Jennifer had wanted, and gotten, a sweet sixteenth so it was only fair. But in all honesty, Richie couldn’t think of anything worse. The idea was nauseating; he wasn’t even keen on his birthday in the first place. It always made him feel guilty for some weird reason, like he wasn’t even supposed to have made it this far. It was a surprise he had, really, all things considered. Over the last few years, he had begun to regard the celebration as more of a hinderance than anything. The presents were cool, sure; but he hated the knowledge that he was burdening his parents even more, so it usually left a sour taste in his mouth. He was a shitty son, and a shitty person, and he didn’t deserve shit. Let alone a party, where all the attention would be on him and he would end up locking himself up in his bedroom to avoid it all. The most he ended up doing by way of ‘birthday celebrations’ was to organise a hang-out with the Losers that evening at the clubhouse. Pizza and under-age drinking were on the agenda; or more like – pizza, _Beverly and Richie_ drinking, and the rest of the Losers behaving responsibly as they always did. It was as close to a party as Richie was going to get, and he liked it that way. No undeserved and unwanted attention, no extended family, no having to answer the same old invasive questions about girls and his future (both of which he had a significant disinterest in). It was just the Losers, as it always had been and always would be, and Richie could just treat it as another day. After all, life would be just as mundane as ever within a handful of hours with the exception that Richie was a numerical step closer to death than he had been. He really didn’t see the big deal in it all. He wanted to be seen, sure, but more in the corner of people’s eyes – he didn’t want people to look too closely, too much deeper; and birthdays just drew the sort of attention, the lingering gaze, that Richie desperately tried to avoid at _all costs_.

Respectful to his wishes, Maggie and Wentworth kept it pretty tame. The morning was pleasant and relaxed. Richie slept in and woke up to the smell of pancakes, to which he dragged himself downstairs in his ratty oversized Star Wars T-Shirt and pyjama pants covered in monkeys and bananas. He was still half asleep as he drizzled way too much maple syrup and cut his breakfast up into haphazard triangles. Pancakes were a treat in of themselves, and on the rare occasion they were made Richie was always told off for using way too much syrup and rotting the teeth out of his skull. But Maggie just smiled at her son and kissed him on the forehead as she wished him a happy special day. Moments like those, quiet moments, made Richie feel a warmth in his chest that he hadn’t felt all that much since he was a young child. It made him realise how grateful he was to have a family like the one he did. Parents who were present in his life, who loved him even if they didn’t really know what that fully entailed. He would feel a weird sort of culpability, not the hammering, freight-train feeling he felt regularly. It was a creeping feeling, like ivy growing around the crevices and structure of his body. He didn’t deserve this. His carefully constructed persona of Richie did, but he didn’t. Richie who was a good son, who did the right thing, was the son who belonged in that home. He loved his mom, and his dad, and his sister. He loved their family, but even in the times he loved them most, he knew he would never truly belong. He was never really there at all.

Richie got a few gifts. A new pair of shoes (red chucks he had been eyeing off for months), a Ghostbusters t-shirt, and a second-hand Polaroid Supercolor Elite and some film. The camera was beat up and obviously had been well loved, but Richie was over the moon with it. He could take photos of anything he wanted to – and of course, his mind instantly flew to the knowledge that now he could take photos of Eddie. As many as he wanted if he had film. He no longer had to rely on Beverly’s Polaroid when he had his own; he could take the photos _he_ wanted to, and no one else had to see them. He could barely contain himself with this knowledge lodged in his brain, and he couldn’t lace his new shoes up fast enough before he flew out the door and made a beeline towards Eddie’s place with his camera and multiple packs of film hastily shoved into the pockets of his nylon shorts. Richie knocked on the door rapid-fire, camera strap looped around his neck. It wasn’t like he was going to ask Eddie to pose for him naked or anything – he just wanted to take photos of him as he was. He wanted to capture the moments that would usually slip through his fingers like sand, wanted to hold his memories in his palm. They were almost more scandalous than naked photos would ever be – photos of Eddie’s smile, of the freckles and moles Richie adored, the one slight dimple in his left cheek, the way the sun looked carding through his hair, the slight pink of his nailbeds and his lips, his wispy eyelashes and his gorgeous doe-eyes. Photos like that were of much higher risk. Photos like that screamed their truths, clear as day. _He is in love_. _Eddie Kaspbrak is the muse for every breath he takes. His desire ran deeper than the body; instead, it had made a home in the very core of his soul._ Richie wanted to live through the Polaroids forever. Doorways and portals into snapshots of a past he would return to, even now, in his dreams.

“Hey, Rich! Happy Birthday!” Eddie opened the door. It was a good day – he looked good, like an intake of crisp, fresh air. Richie instantly smiled, his cheeks hurting. For a fleeting moment, he wished he could greet Eddie the way he wanted to. He wished he could kiss him, on the mouth or the cheek, or pull him into a hug. He had never realised just how much he wanted such a simple thing until he realised just how far out of grasp it really was. He would never have that, and in that moment, he wanted more than anything in the entire world. “How’s it been so far, huh? I didn’t expect to see you before tonight. Babcia’s out volunteering at the church.” Eddie smiled, and Richie felt his blood bubble into a simmer in his veins as he followed him inside. “What’d you get? Anything good?” Eddie asked over his shoulder as they walked through the house. The camera in Richie’s hands felt like it almost burned to the touch, his fingers fiddling with the trigger. He hadn’t even taken the time to load it up with film yet nor had he tested it out. He probably should have in hindsight, but he was too enthusiastic to take the time to care.

“Oh yeah. I got those red Chucks I wanted and a new shirt. The one I’m wearing. Also, I got this camera. How fucking cool is it? It’s a Polaroid. You know, the sorta one Bev has? I got film for it too.” Richie explained, his words flying out of his mouth faster than he could process them. As per usual, they headed straight into Eddie’s room. He couldn’t remember the last time they had sit in the lounge room, on that sofa he could recognise from touch and smell alone. Richie took a seat on Eddie’s desk chair, and Eddie sat opposite him on the edge of his bed. He had changed his sheets so that they were racing-car themed, his blankets pulled tight and his pillows fluffed and perfectly positioned. It was almost as if Eddie just never slept at all with how perfect his bedspread looked. The air in the room was warm and slightly humid and Richie realised Eddie probably had just finished showering – his hair was even still a little damp now that he had the chance to look at him properly.

“Dude, really? That’s so _rad_ — have you tried it out yet?” He asked as Richie handed him the Polaroid to have a look at. Eddie inspected it closely, lifting it towards the light as if he had never seen a camera in his life. Richie took that chance to look at _him_ properly. He looked so fresh and clean and comfortable, his skin glowing and dewy from the steam of his shower. He was wearing an oversized baby blue pullover, and Richie felt his mouth go dry as he watched the way the neckline scooped low enough to show off his sharp collarbones. Richie licked his lips and swallowed sandpaper. He wanted to run his tongue along them, to leave light bruises on his pretty skin. He liked that pullover a lot; it made Eddie’s neck look long and slender.

“I was wanting to test it out here.” Richie shrugged, and Eddie snorted a laugh, looking up at him from the camera and rolling his eyes. He felt his cheeks heat up, and he wrinkled his nose at Eddie, pulling a leg up to his chest as he swivelled on the chair just a little.

“Here? On what? I thought you’d wanna hang out with your family or something.” Eddie handed the camera back to Richie, who shrugged. He pulled out some film from his pocket, opening the packet and tossing it into the rubbish bin beside the fancy mahogany desk Richie was pretty fucking jealous of in all honesty.

“I dunno. I just wanted to show you. Plus, I kinda wanted to take a photo of someone. My parents are busy, and Jennifer looks like a wet rat.” Richie muttered as he tried to figure out how to load the film in. Beverly had showed him once, but he could only remember a few of the steps now. It had been a while, and he hadn’t really been paying all that much attention at the time. Eddie laughed.

“So, you want to take photos of me?” He asked, and Richie looked up from his fiddling. He looked at Eddie as if the answer was obvious, because it _was_ obvious. Why else would he bother coming over with his new camera if he wasn’t intending on using it to take photos of Eddie?

“Uh, _yeah_. Is that cool with you?” Richie looked back down at his camera, managing to get the film to click into place. Eddie chuckled in the way he did when he was shy; a soft, tender sound that had a home in Richie’s ribs.

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s cool with me, Rich. Just lemme take one of you too, okay?” He asked, and Richie pulled a face as he lifted the camera up to his eye. He didn’t know why anyone would want a photo of him. He wasn’t pretty like Eddie. He was just some greasy kid with a big mouth and no sense of style, who’s clothes never fit right, who had a face that screamed _punch me in the teeth_. Through the viewfinder, Eddie was the boy Richie knew he would love until he didn’t know how to anymore. He was shy and smiling toothily at him, sitting with his sleeves covering his hands on his lap. The blush on his cheeks was the same shade as the wild pink roses near the town library. Richie took the first photo. They watched eagerly as it slowly developed, and Eddie took it from Richie’s hands. He scribbled on the back in black biro, in handwriting that was too neat to be legal. Eddie had always had the neatest handwriting he had ever _seen_.

*

There was no other way Richie would rather spend his sixteenth birthday than hanging out with Eddie at his house. It wasn’t like they were doing anything particularly special. In fact, they were doing the same thing that they always did. And that was what was so perfect about it. Being able to hang out and just _be_. No expectations. They could laugh and make stupid jokes all they wanted. Just being able to exist without any strings attached and without worrying about the opinions of an outside world that had never wanted to understand.

Richie had let Eddie try out his Polaroid so that he could hold up his end of the bargain. He had taken a seat at the head of Eddie’s bed, resting up against the fluffed pillows as Eddie figured out how the camera worked. He knew he probably should help, but it was just so sweet seeing Eddie try and work out the mechanisms, holding it up to the light before he looked around the room through the view finder. They were talking about nothing and everything all at once; Eddie delving into some article he had read in some car magazine. Richie didn’t care about cars, but Eddie did, so he liked to listen as he would go into detail about mechanics and features and the newest developments that had him excited for the future of motor vehicle transport. It was strange in a way, because Richie would have pinned Eddie to want to start working towards a licence before anybody else did. But Stan had been the first, followed by Bill, followed by Richie – and Eddie still hadn’t made any effort to learn how to drive just yet. Richie figured it was something to do with that same fear he had regarding bicycles. It was too unpredictable, too open to possibility. Eddie liked control and riding a bike or driving a car was too uncontrollable for him to consider just yet. In his opinion, Eddie was probably the most capable of the Losers to drive a car safely with all the knowledge he had in the area. He was pretty sure Eddie knew enough about cars to build one from scrap metal and tape if he needed to.

When the flash of the Polaroid filled the room, Richie was caught off guard. He had forgotten Eddie had had the camera at all. He was reclined slightly, leaning against the wall with his hands comfortably fitted behind his head. He had been smiling and chuckling, listening to the cadence and tone of Eddie’s voice; just letting himself be present, every word washing over him like a wave of _okay_. His shirt was hitched up just a little to expose a sliver of his hip and stomach. And just like that, Eddie took a photo. Richie just knew it would be a terrible photo, and he groaned in faux annoyance. He tried to grab the camera from Eddie, who thrust it in his direction, not before saving the polaroid he had taken and holding it out of Richie’s reach.

“You promised!” He said through his laughter as Richie scrambled to try and get the photo from him. He wasn’t trying all that hard – it was just an excuse, really, to get close to Eddie. To make him laugh and smile. So he could see that sunshine boy he held so dear, that set fire to his insides and made him burn hotter than the sun. “You promised I could have a Polaroid of you, asshole! It’s only fair!” He cried out as Richie used the opportunity to snap another photo. It would be horrible, and blurry, and unfocused. But it would be Eddie as he was. Authentic, unapologetic, radiant. Richie placed the camera on the bedside table, and the newest stolen moments he had frozen in time forever.

“Nothing’s fair in life, Eddie. But I always keep my promises, so you’re fucking lucky.” Richie conceded his defeat, relaxing once more against the pillows they had fallen against countless times by this point.

“I am. I am lucky.” Eddie tucked the photo under his mattress at the corner of his bed. Hidden from sight, Richie lived there too now. A piece of him left with Eddie forever.

*

“I have a present for you.” Eddie declared. It was nearing late afternoon. Richie had taken to laying on Eddie’s bed, lazily perusing some old Thundercats comics that had been obviously read through hundreds of times before him. He blinked, willing away the slight threat of a catnap as Eddie’s words slowly settled on the creaky floorboards of his brain.

“What?” Richie put the comic down a little so he could peer over it at Eddie, who was perched at the desk. For the past half an hour, he had been tediously and methodically cutting out pictures and text from a multitude of sources. Magazines, photos, cards, newspapers. He had accumulated small piles on the desktop in front of him, all neatly stacked and organised for their future purposes. Richie had never really understood the whole scrapbooking thing. He had asked about it a few times, but Eddie had always been vague about it when he answered. He gathered it was a hobby he had picked up from Wendy – who he still was clueless about – when he was a kid that helped him refocus his thoughts and calm him down. Richie had asked him what he made scrapbooks of specifically, what he would make collages about. Eddie had told him _all kinds of things_ , which left him wondering if Eddie ever made a page for him. Maybe one day he would be brave enough to ask and not be terrified of the answer (both the possibility of a yes or a no).

“I got you a present. I saved up some money and I um… I got you something. It’s nothing big.” Eddie said, having turned back towards the desk. He probably wanted to avoid Richie’s gaze, judging by the dusting of a blush across the apples of his cheeks.

“Dude, you didn’t have to. It’s just a birthday, y’know. Just spending time with you is cool.” Richie put the comic beside him. His heart was beating so hard it hurt in his chest, his stomach doing acrobatics at the thought that Eddie had gone out of his way to buy a present for _him_. It could be anything, _anything_ , and Richie would treasure it as if it were priceless. It was – it was priceless in his eyes. Eddie could give him a cool rock he had found, and Richie would see it as if it were the rarest diamond.

“Shut up, idiot. _Of course_ I was gonna get you something. It’s your sixteenth.” Eddie’s veil of exasperation was thin, and Richie could see right through it. He was embarrassed about it, which was sweet, because he really didn’t have to be. Eddie opened up the top drawer of his desk, pulling out a small box. He had affixed a cream ribbon bow to the top of it, and Richie’s palms felt suspiciously sweaty at the sight. He wished, twenty years from then, that it would be a smaller box. Velvet, with a ring inside. It wasn’t legal, sure. But that didn’t matter. Just another thing he would never have, that was always _just out of reach_.

Eddie stood up, bridging the gap between the desk and the bed, and sitting on the corner of the mattress. He looked at the box in his hands for a few seconds, his eyebrows furrowed as he seemed to deliberate something in is head. Richie waited, wiping the palms of his hands against his jeans as he tried to calm himself down enough to be able to hear past the circulation of blood throbbing in his eardrums.

“Here. Happy Birthday, Rich.” Eddie finally said softly, holding the box out to Richie. He looked almost as if he expected him to reject it – to laugh in his face and make fun of him in the same way the Bowers gang did on the regular. Richie, instead, took the box with slightly shaky hands that Eddie never seemed to comment on despite the regularity of his tremors. “Are you gonna open it?”

“Oh my god yes, just gimme a second, Eds. Calm your tits.” Richie laughed as he fiddled with the box, pulling the top off and placing it on the bed beside him. He was almost scared to look at the contents. Not because he thought that he would be disappointed, but more because he knew he would be _overwhelmed_. Eddie had gotten him a gift. He had gone out of his way to get something for Richie’s birthday. He had thought about what it was he wanted to get, and he had gotten it for him, and… fuck. Whatever it was, Richie was going to keep it forever, long after Eddie’s name had become a wisp of a memory, barely tangible but always there.

It was a watch. Not a cheap one, either. It was a brand Richie knew was good, because he had heard his dad talk about their watches before. It was minimalist, with a large white face and a dark brown leather strap. Richie’s eyes were wide, his eyebrows up at his hairline as he pulled it free from the box and began to look it over.

“Eds—how much did you spend on this? Oh my god—Dude, this is crazy. I can’t accept this.” Richie’s brain felt broken; like the cables had been cut and were sparking all over the place. Like he had forgotten almost the entirety of the English language. His heart felt huge, suffocating him, his head dizzy as he forgot how to breathe.

“You have to keep it. I got it for you.” Eddie said, scooting closer. His knees against Richie’s as he leaned forward and coaxed him to turn the watch over. “Look. I hope you like it. I wanted to get you something nice.” Eddie’s voice was small, and Richie could hear the tinges of uncertainty behind every syllable. There, engraved into the metal, was a simple inscription.

_R + E_

_1992_

Richie felt as if he was ascending into heaven in that moment, if he wasn’t so sure he was already there. It was perfect. It was perfect. It was the best thing he had ever been gifted in his life. Right there, against his skin. He chanted it already in his head like a mantra.

_R + E._

_R + E._

_R + E._

“Eds,” Richie breathed, his voice scratchy as all hell. He cleared his throat, swallowing down the sudden intense urge to cry that had hit him like a brick. He could barely take a breath at all – he was just so full with emotion. “This is the best thing anyone has ever given me. Seriously. This is _so fucking wicked cool_.” Richie put the watch on, the cool metal and inscription pressed securely against his skin. He didn’t want to take it off ever. He didn’t want the moment to end. He didn’t want to go anywhere, or do anything, or be anyone. He wanted to just sit on Eddie’s bed until the end of time, as they were right then.

“Really? You like it?” Eddie’s shoulders relaxed, and Richie held his wrist up to show off his newest gift for his world (Eddie) to see. Eddie’s face lit up with a smile, from ear to ear. “I was hoping you would. I thought maybe it was too much.”

“Nothing you could do would ever be too much, Spaghetti-head.” Richie teased, putting the box beside his camera for safe keeping. “Seriously. You’re the best thing I could ever have.”

*

Richie knew that they were running out of time. They were supposed to meet up with the Losers at the clubhouse in the next few hours and Richie still had to grab the bag he had pre-packed the night before with the goods from his bedroom. And yet, despite this impending deadline, and the fact that he hadn’t thought up a good excuse just yet that would cover his ass when he would be late to his own birthday thing, Richie was in no rush. In fact, he would be happy to miss the clubhouse gathering all together if he had the choice, and if it wouldn’t rouse suspicions as to why both Richie and Eddie were an unexplained no-show. He wished that the world would somehow forget about them, that they could choose to check themselves out like library books and their entire existences would be pulled from the shelves of collective consciousness. He wasn’t even sure when Mrs. S was supposed to arrive home from wherever she had been. All these things should have served as red flags for him. Warning signs to remind him to tread carefully, that he shouldn’t take any unnecessary risks that could result in less than desirable outcomes. If anyone were to ask him in that moment, he couldn’t care less. He almost didn’t even _care_ if they were to get caught. Would it even be that bad?

It had escalated in the same way that it always seemed to now. One moment, they were lying on Eddie’s bed side by side, talking candidly about school and homework they both needed to get a handle on. They’d been lying so close to one another that their sides were flush, Richie comfortable with an arm behind his head and Eddie absently chewing on his nails. He did that a lot, and it always reminded Richie of the thing his mother had put on his sister’s nails to force her to stop chewing them as a child for some reason. He had considered maybe suggesting it to Eddie to help him considering sometimes his nail-biting was so bad that it made his nailbeds raw and bloody. He never had though. He always seemed to forget, just as quickly as it had come to mind.

“Hey Rich?” Eddie asked, after a brief lapse in conservation and a comfortable silence. Richie turned his head to look at Eddie. He was staring off into space, at nothing in particular. He had taken to biting at his bottom lip instead, pulling the skin free with his teeth. He watched as speckles of blood prickled to the surface, and Richie wondered if that hurt at all or if Eddie had gotten used to it. He wondered how much Eddie had gotten used to at this point.

“What’s up, Eds?” Richie asked, and he felt Eddie shift. He continued to bite on his bottom lip, his brows furrowing as he seemed to sink into his own thoughts. He glanced over at Richie, lip freed from the worrying, his eyes searching across his face. For what? What was Eddie looking for? He never knew – he could never tell.

“Can we… I mean, like… Can we practice before you leave? I have something I want to try.” Eddie’s blush was supersonic. The words had barely left his mouth before the tell-tale sign of embarrassment would bloom across his cheeks, his nose, the tips of his ears. Richie could feel his breath, his words, against his lips and cheeks. “Is that okay?”

“Yeah, I mean—of course, dude. Always.” Richie tried to sound casual and not _too_ enthusiastic that it would be weird. Eddie nodded, biting the inside of his cheek as he went quiet again.

“Tell me if you… if you don’t want to do anything, right? I just… I saw some videos and pictures and stuff, and I talked to some guys and… You know. But if you don’t want to, that’s okay. Just say that you don’t want to, and we can do what we always do.” Eddie propped himself up onto his elbows to look at Richie, who hadn’t moved a muscle even though his arm was dead beneath his head and getting pretty fucking uncomfortable because of that. “Okay?”

“Of course, Eds. Calm your engines, tiger.” Richie chuckled to himself, even though he, himself, had engines that were very far from calm. He was a mixture of excitement and nerves; so much so that as he tried to prop himself up too, he managed for his hands to nearly slip on Eddie’s bed sheets and chance give himself carpet burn from the friction. “ _Fuck_ —shut up.” He said instantly as Eddie snickered, the previously apparent apprehension melting away at Richie’s awkwardness. Somehow, it made his chest feel lighter too. It was just Eddie – this was just Eddie. They were just doing what the had done so many times beforehand; and last time Eddie had suggested something be added, it had been mind-blowing. He knew and trusted that Eddie wouldn’t spring something on him that would be completely out of his realm of enjoyment, especially not on his birthday of all days.

“Sit up against the pillows.” Eddie instructed, and Richie hummed an affirmative as he scooted up and did just that. He moved to take his shirt off, like they always did, and Eddie quickly reached out and abruptly put a hand on his arm. “No—no. Not yet. Keep it on.” He rushed to say, and Richie began to protest in confusion, because that’s what they _always did_ , when Eddie smoothly slid into his lap. Eddie had sat on Richie’s lap quite a few times. Sometimes when they were hanging out with the Losers, sometimes just whenever he felt like it. There had been a few times he had done it while they had been making out, too, or when they were doing that thing where they would grind their hips together until they both came (was there even a word for that?). Still, it wiped Richie’s brain like a goddamn whiteboard, leaving him barely able to string together a coherent set of syllables to make up an understandable word. “You talk too much, Rich.” Eddie’s mouth curled up at the edges, just a little, as he settled. Richie’s eyes glanced over towards the door out of pure habit, expecting Mrs. S to suddenly barge through and find them like this. “It’s locked.” Eddie reassured him, a small hand resting in the middle of Richie’s sternum. Richie swallowed, wiping his hands on his pants before he settled a hand on Eddie’s hips. Eddie always liked that, and he liked it too. Feeling those slight curves under his touch, the way they sat so perfectly there. He had such a beautiful, perfect body. Richie adored every inch of it.

Eddie’s hand moved upwards. He cupped Richie’s face, his touch so gentle and soft that it sent Richie reeling. He swallowed, nearly choking on his own spit in the process. He wanted to know so much. What were they going to do? What videos and pictures were Eddie talking about? Who had he been talking to? Why now? Why him? Why had he let this get so far? _Why_ —

“Stop thinking so much.” Eddie’s voice cut through his thoughts, and Richie blinked and frowned from behind his thick glasses’ lens. Eddie laughed, a soft chuckle deep from the pit of his stomach. “You get this look on your face. I can tell. Just… trust me, Richie. Do you trust me?”

“Always.” Richie didn’t have to wait to answer. He knew the answer straight away. He always did because it was so innate in him. There was no question to whether or not he trusted Eddie. There was not a moment in his life in which he hadn’t trusted Eddie more than he trusted himself. “Always, Eds.”

Eddie smiled. And he kissed him, and Richie felt every tense worry and anxiety melt away. He always managed to do that for him; to make things seem to suddenly make sense, to suddenly seem okay. Because they were, in that moment, when Eddie was kissing him. When he was cupping his face with both hands, when their lips moved with one another so perfectly and practiced. They had done this, over and over. For hours and hours. And Richie still felt like he had the first time. He still felt as if he was thrown out to sea, except the sea was made up of clouds, and he was floating – floating, far, far, far. Away from the pain, away from confusion. To a place that understood, to a place that didn’t wish to hurt him, to a place where he could exist. Where he could hold Eddie’s hand in public, kiss him, where he could confess to him without fear that he would lose the only thing helping him hold on. It was selfish, he knew, and unhealthy to be so reliant on another human being. But he couldn’t help it. Eddie was a life-raft in a life that was hellbent on drowning Richie, offering the only true semblance of help he had ever seen. Without Eddie, Richie was sure he would be dead and gone by that point. _Certain_.

He wasn’t entirely sure what he was supposed to do, but Eddie seemed to know exactly how to answer his unspoken question. He reached down to guide Richie’s hand, coaxing it to slide up along his sides and push his oversized sweater up. He wasn’t wearing anything beneath it – no t-shirt, just bare skin. Richie made a sound at that – a gasp, or a small moan, or something equally as embarrassing. Eddie swallowed it, sighing sweetly as Richie took to his nonverbal instructions. He let his hands move and roam over soft skin and slender form and boyish curves. As he kissed like he needed to so he could survive, sharing breaths with him. He could taste those speckles of blood from before, an intoxicating reminder of the fragility of it all.

_Everything was okay. The pain was worth it. Everything was clear, and Richie loved Eddie. He loved him, he loved him. It was so clear, it was so true, and it was okay. It was right. The world was wrong, the world was wrong, the world was wrong._

The kiss broke, but they didn’t part. Eddie’s mouth was practically atop of Richie’s still, his breaths having begun to quicken like that of a rabbit. One of the many Richie had seen growing up – brown fur, white tails and feet, speeding through the trees and fields like they always had somewhere to be. He had always wanted to hold one but had always been terrified of crushing it to death.

“I like it when—when you touch me like that,” Eddie said softly, his breath pushing into Richie’s mouth, his lips brushing across the corner of Richie’s. Usually, they didn’t talk that much. Words had always been a bit of an unspoken taboo. Richie didn’t even know what to say in response; instead he ran a hand up Eddie’s back. He could feel his spine, his ribcage, his blemish-less skin stretched so perfectly across his shoulders and shoulder-blades. Eddie hummed, taking Richie’s other hand in his. He was wearing some of his signature shorts – white, cottony ones that barely passed the hem of the pullover. Richie had perved on Eddie so many times over the years when he had worn shorts like that – ones that made his legs stretch on for miles, that showed off the thighs Richie saw in his wet dreams. Eddie, in tune with what it was that would make Richie’s brain melt out of his ears, lead his hand along his thigh. They crept higher, higher, higher; up into the leg of the shorts. Richie’s breath stammered, his dick thickening in his pants, which he hoped Eddie wouldn’t notice. “And like this.”

“Oh,” Was all Richie could manage, and he sounded like he had half a brain. But could anyone blame him, really? Eddie let go of his hand, instead running his hands across the expanse of Richie’s shoulders, over his upper arms. Richie was frozen at first, not sure where to go from there, until Eddie pushed into his hand. He got the message then, loud and clear. His hand slipped up further, his fingers spreading as he ventured up Eddie’s shorts. He felt like the first man on the fucking moon.

Especially when he realised Eddie was not wearing any underwear.

Richie choked on his breath as his hand sunk into the bare flesh of Eddie’s ass. He had had his eyes closed up until that point; but they shot open just in time to catch Eddie’s small smile, the way he let out a little, airy moan.

Holy Jesus, Mary of God. Mother? Jesus, Christ, Almighty. Amen.

“You’re not wearing underwear, Eddie.” Richie croaked. His whole body felt like it was suddenly a million degrees. He almost expected Eddie to realise he had made a crucial mistake in dressing himself and get all embarrassed. He expected to have to reassure him that it was fine and no big deal, because it was Eddie. Sweet Eddie, innocent Eddie, Eddie who probably didn’t even know the schematics of fucking and reproduction. But Eddie didn’t do that. He just smiled again, licking his lips before he answered in a frustratingly calm and collected voice.

“I know. Is that okay?” He asked, and Richie was pretty sure he already knew the answer, because his hands were at the hem of Richie’s shirt and beginning to pull it over his head. “I think it’s more than okay, isn’t it, Richie?”

“Um— _shit_ , yeah—yeah, it’s—fuck.” Richie’s tongue literally felt tied in his mouth; a useless slab of meat. His shirt hit the floor. “So that’s—I can do that? That’s okay?”

Eddie nodded, and Richie watched, transfixed, as he pulled his oversized pullover over his head. He didn’t fold it. It fell to the floor, beside Richie’s, and Richie couldn’t help himself. Both hands slipped up Eddie’s thighs. He watched his hands over the expanse of perfect skin, the way they disappeared into the white cottony shorts that had always been too short for their own good. Richie had groped Eddie quite a bit; but he had never been able to touch him without underwear. This was his _ass_. His ass, as in his naked ass beneath the shorts. He could fucking die happy. He could pass away in that moment alone. _Happy fucking birthday to him._

The noises that Eddie made had always gotten to Richie. They were better than any porno he had in his collection. Just the small sighs, and moans, and groans, were enough to make Richie achingly hard in his pants. It was _humiliating,_ and maybe if he didn’t have both hands kneading at Eddie’s ass-cheeks like he was kneading dough, he would be more embarrassed about it. What also helped him feel a little better was that Eddie was hard too. He could feel it; those shorts were far from forgiving, especially with the added burden of Richie’s hands pulling the fabric taut. Eddie didn’t seem to care, though. He had taken to wrapping his arms around Richie’s neck, resting on his shoulders, his chest flush against Richie’s. He could feel every breath, every sigh. He could feel the rapid beating of his heart against his sternum, feel the way Eddie was just as wrapped up in all of this. Richie wanted to kiss him, but he didn’t want to occupy his mouth and muffle the noises he adored so much. So he settled for kissing Eddie’s neck; open mouthed and hot and sloppy. He didn’t bite or suck because he knew leaving marks would probably be one of the worst things he could do. Eddie’s hips cantered forward, and he moaned, one of his hands tangling into Richie’s hair so tight he could feel some strands snap.

His moan was a proper moan too. It wasn’t a soft, scared moan, a muffled moan. It was a proper moan that bounced off the walls. It was a risk. Too risky. But Richie panted, sinking his nails into the soft flesh of Eddie’s butt unintentionally. That earned him another breathy, delighted moan, his hips pushing downwards again.

“I want to—I want to take our pants off.” Eddie’s voice sounded hoarser than usual, and he looked like he was almost drunk; his eyes glazed over as he looked at Richie. His blush seemed like it had stained his skin or something, his hair mussed and a far cry from it’s usual near perfect styling. “Can we?”

Richie blinked. His brain felt as if it was working through a tonne of molasses. Slow and sluggish and horny. He could barely comprehend what Eddie was suggesting. All he could think of was how good he looked in that moment – perched atop of Richie, shirtless and decadent, his lips swollen and pink. Richie wanted to escape somewhere where it was summer forever, where he could kiss Eddie over and over, limbs heavy with heat. He wanted to lick the sweat from Eddie’s temples and the nape of his neck, watch as he stretched under the UV rays, his freckle-kissed skin shimmering under the light of the sun. They could run away somewhere where they could be together, another place, another country, another dimension, another time. Richie would wait forever. He would.

“Yeah,” Richie had almost forgotten to reply. “Yeah, okay.” He was wearing underwear, and he knew that was the normal but he almost felt awkward about it. If he wasn’t already braindead from hormones and horniness he would probably have had a lot more reservations regarding the whole deal. But at that moment, all he could do was fixate on the fact that he would get to see Eddie naked. _Naked_. _Fully naked_. Like how he had imagined him, how he had fantasised and had always felt so horrible about afterwards because _who did that_? Richie’s hands weren’t even shaking, like the usually did. He was eager. So eager he could barely contain it all. It felt like liquid gold was running through his arteries.

“Okay. I um… I’ll move, and we can take them off at the same time, and I’ll sit back here.” Eddie suggested, lifting himself up off of Richie’s lap. “Don’t look yet—” Richie kept his eyes down as he was told to, frantically scrambling to take off his own shorts. He thanked the lord he wasn’t wearing jeans, because it was fairly easy to pull his shorts and underwear down and kick them off to where his shirt had been long condemned.

Being naked, fully naked, on Eddie’s bed, was a momentarily sobering experience. He had never done this before. He had never done anything like this in his life. He was sitting on Eddie’s bed naked, with the exception of his stupid gimmicky socks with sharks on them, with a boner. He almost scrambled to get his clothes back on so he could run back to his parent’s place and never talk to Eddie again. Richie wasn’t attractive. He wasn’t hot, he wasn’t the type of guy that people wanted to see naked. This had been a mistake. Did he really want to do this? Was this really a good idea?

As soon as Eddie settled back down on his lap, free from any of those nice clothes Richie had always secretly envied and coveted, he had his answer.

 _Yes._ Fuck _yes_.

Richie was staring. But to be fair, so was Eddie. There was silence as they both took it in. Sure, Richie had seen plenty of dicks in porn; but this was so different. Seeing a dick in real life was so different. He almost had thought that maybe he wouldn’t like dicks in real life, and that he wasn’t really gay. But fuck. Fuck, he was _gay_. Eddie had a slight curve to his hips that only really accentuated his thighs. From the angle they were sitting in, he couldn’t see his ass. But he could feel it against his bare legs. He could feel _everything_. His ass, his thighs, his balls. The whole deal. Richie felt almost as if he was going to start hyperventilating, so he tried to remind himself how to breathe like a normal human being without any lung capacity issues. Eddie had a nice dick. He had less pubic hair than Richie did, and it wasn’t as dark or coarse as his was. He was surprised, because he wasn’t really all that hairy so he didn’t really expect him to have hair there at all. And his dick was circumcised like his was, though his dick was bigger. Eddie wasn’t small by any means, though, considering his petite stature. It almost made Richie angry with how even that part of Eddie was perfect; but he was mainly horny, and that overtook like, all of his brain power.

“Well fuck,” Eddie broke the silence, and Richie could feel his thighs twitch. “You’re so hairy.”

“Thank you?” Richie couldn’t help but laugh at the offhand comment, to which Eddie swatted at his upper arm and grumbled his humiliation. “You uh… you look really good.”

“You do too.” Eddie visibly swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his neck as he did so. “Have you ever done this before?”

“No.” Richie admitted, and for once, it was the truth. All of the lies about his sexual conquests came away in an instant; though he had the impression Eddie knew all along. “Have you?”

Eddie shook his head, and Richie didn’t know what he expected; but he was glad he wasn’t the only one completely out of his depth here. Eddie shifted his body forward a little, and Richie was hyper-aware of all the areas in which they were touching. He wanted so much in that moment that he couldn’t begin to decide what he wanted _most_ or what he wanted in particular. All he knew is that he wanted _Eddie._ Eddie looped one arm around Richie’s neck first, as if to stabilise himself.

“Can you… Can you wrap your hand around both of us? Your hand is bigger than mine. I think it would fit better.” Eddie’s suggestion brushed past Richie’s ear and he felt himself start to blush, sweat collecting at the nape of his neck and at his temples.

“Okay, yeah,” Richie agreed, using one arm to keep Eddie close and in place around his hips. He wiped his hand on the duvet beside him before he slowly wrapped it around both of their dicks. It was a weird feeling – but it was _good_. Richie felt more sensitive than ever, and Eddie let out this little cute noise that made his dick twitch in his hand. “Shit. Like this?” 

“Yeah, yeah—like that. Okay.” Eddie murmured, frowning as if he was concentrating really hard. Richie started to move his hand, then. It was a bit rough, and a little uncomfortable at first because it was too dry. But it quickly started to feel amazing once he was able to use their precum to lessen the friction. He just did what he always did with himself, applying it to the both of them – and it seemed to work wonders, Eddie clinging onto him and panting with his mouth open and his eyes practically closed. It was so forbidden, it was so bad, and Richie knew they shouldn’t be doing it – but he didn’t stop for a second. He kept going, getting faster as he felt that familiar tightening in the pit of his stomach. Eddie’s dick was weeping precum too, and Richie was determined to make him come first. Eddie’s hair was matted to his forehead with sweat, as Richie’s hair was too, gasping and groaning as he sunk his nails deep into Richie’s back and shoulders. That extra bite only made everything feel that much better.

“Fuck, Eds— _Jesus_ , Eddie,” Richie didn’t even know what he was trying to say. His brain just kept short-circuiting. “God— you look so good, you’re so good—” Richie had no rhythm at that point, jerking the both of them off frantically and messily. Their hips moved into the movements, meeting every downstroke in tandem. Richie wanted more. He wanted to do everything he could with Eddie. He wanted to do this over and over and over, and he wanted to try everything he saw in his favourite pornos, and he wanted to make love to him slow and fast and everything in between.

“Richie, Richie—I’m gonna… I’m close, I think I’m gonna—” Eddie sounded like he was near tears, his voice wavering and thick, and within moments he came. Hot and all over Richie’s chest and hands, and just seeing that, and hearing Eddie, and seeing his pretty face scrunched up like that – Richie cursed and came too. The waves of pleasure that hit him were so intense he swore his vision went out of focus, and he jerked them both through it until they were both completely spent.

Exhaustion hit first, followed by a hollow feeling in the base of Richie’s gut. Guilt, shame, fear all combined into one. He was trying to get his breath back as he sat there, unable to look Eddie in the eye. Instead, he felt disgusting and filthy. He needed a fucking shower, too, and he didn’t have nearly as much time as he’d like. Eddie was quiet too, and he could feel his eyes on Richie. Searching, like they always did, and it _annoyed him_. What the fuck was he even looking for? Richie had nothing to offer, nothing. He was nothing. He was the worst type of person. He was convinced that he had somehow manipulated Eddie into this whole thing – that he didn’t truly want to do anything like this with Richie, and that he had just conned him into it for his own selfish, perverted desires. He needed to burn in fucking hell, that’s what he needed to do. All his suffering was his own fault – he deserved it, he deserved it, he deserved—

“Richie,” Eddie spoke softly, tenderly. His hand met Richie’s cheek, but Richie didn’t burst into flames like he thought he would. “Richie. It’s okay. Okay? It’s okay. This was okay. Did you like it?”

Richie didn’t want to admit that he did. He felt tears in his eyes, hot and angry, his chest tight and his throat closing up. He didn’t answer, but he didn’t think he needed to; because Eddie kissed him instead. On the lips, soft and sweet, and he tucked his face into Richie’s neck as he held onto him. He didn’t bring up the way Richie didn’t make a sound when he began to cry. And he didn’t bring it up when Eddie wiped the both of them clean and picked their clothes up off the floor.

Richie wondered how much Eddie knew, but he was too scared to ask. He wondered if Eddie knew that Richie loved him, and he wondered if that lived in his mind, among all the other things that Eddie never wanted to talk about. Part of him never wanted to do anything like that ever again – but a majority of him, most of him, knew that he would give anything for it. To feel alive, and to feel seen, and to feel needed. To feel like he didn’t care that the world didn’t understand him and didn’t want him, because at least Eddie did.

At least Eddie always had.


	15. loverboy; 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ben would look at Beverly in a way that declared love in the form of a thunderous symphony. Blearing and overbearingly obvious. Richie had been declaring his love from the very moment he knew how. Stolen glances, pinned like a bug beneath glass. Yearning and pining in the form of annoyance, his voice loud but his insides so, so soft.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains explicit sexual content.

“So, when were you planning on telling me about Eddie?”

Richie looked over at the mess of fiery curls that he could see from his vantage point on the floor of his bedroom. Beverly was lying on his bed, the covers kicked into a messy pile near her feet. She didn’t care if Richie made his bed or not or if he had dirty clothes piled up in the corner of his room. And if she did, she certainly never said a word about it.

“What?” Richie hadn’t exactly caught what she had said properly. Or rather, he hadn’t responded straight away, and the words had slipped his mind and into the abyss that was occupying his skull. Bev had come over for the afternoon, as Richie’s family were busy doing… _whatever_. He didn’t even remember. He didn’t really care. He didn’t care about much at that point. His body felt like it was stuffed full with the same cotton that had taken to filling his brain and mouth.

“I _said_ ,” Richie heard Beverly say, accompanied by the sound of rustling sheets as she took to half hanging off the bed backwards. Her bright red hair reached towards the ground in its short curly glory, and Richie was reminded of how much he liked her hair short like that. She had cut it off quite suddenly a few years ago and had never gone back. He thought it really suited her and made her look absolutely beautiful. “I said, when were you planning on telling me about the Eddie thing, huh?”

Richie scrunched up his face at her, and she just grinned, sitting up so that she could grab the bottle of Jack that she had been making good work of in the past few hours.

“There is no… Eddie thing. I dunno where you got that idea from.” Richie muttered with a sigh, rubbing his eyes with the palms of his hands. He left them there for a while, pressing down until he saw swirling solar systems begin to appear behind his eyelids. He heard Beverly take a drink, and he removed one hand in favour of reaching out for the bottle himself.

“You’re full of shit, Richie. I know you’re fucking lying to me. You really think I wouldn’t notice?” Beverly leaned forward as Richie propped himself up with an elbow. He grabbed the bottle, taking a few gulps of the liquid. He wanted to try and get rid of the horrible chemical taste on his tongue. No matter how many times he crunched a Percocet between his teeth, the taste still made him gag. In the back of his foggy, _quiet_ brain, he remembered something about not drinking alcohol when taking pills. He figured it wasn’t really that important; or maybe, he didn’t care about that all that much either.

He shrugged, handing her the bottle as he moved to sit against the side of his bed, grabbing her carton of cigarettes from the mattress beside his head and stealing one for himself.

“Scab.” Beverly chastised lightly, swatting half-heartedly at his head. Her hand ended up catching in his hair, prompting her to start scratching at his scalp. Richie closed his eyes. “So, what’s going on, huh?”

“I dunno.” Richie shrugged, leaning up into the touches that felt like magic in that moment. He felt almost like he was made up of jelly. He knew that he would usually freak out about Beverly confronting him with the fact that she somehow _knew_ about Eddie and Richie. But he didn’t really understand why he even cared so much when he was sober, why he would bend over backwards to try and keep it a secret from the world. God, he was so tired of keeping secrets. “What do you think’s going on?”

“I mean—” Beverly handed him her lighter, and Richie thanked her as he lit the stolen cigarette and took a deep breath in. “I’ve been messing around with Ben. Have I told you that? It’s a new thing, like… maybe two weeks or something.”

“Ben?” Richie raised his eyebrows and turned to look at Beverly, who shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly. “Are we talking about the same Ben? Are you sure? I don’t think he even knows that women have orgasms.”

“Oh, he _knows_.” Beverly contended, and Richie made a dramatic gagging noise in response. Beverly playfully pulled at his hair, finally detangling her fingers from it so she could light her own cigarette while they talked. He knew she was probably bordering on drunk at this point, and that he was very obviously off his face; so, their conversation definitely was considerably slurred and punctuated with frequent pauses. “So you think I don’t know that you and Eddie have something going on? The whole ‘Eddie’ thing is a thing in itself, _loverboy_. But like, what’s going on? Are you guys hooking up?”

“ _Loverboy_?” Richie echoed with a frown, pulling a leg up to his chest as he relaxed against his bedframe and the side of his mattress. “Yeah, guess so. We’ve done some stuff a few times. Just like… for fun.”

“For fun?” Beverly repeated with a laugh as she flicked him in the ear. “Right, okay. For _fun_ , got it.”

“You don’t have to want to like… be with someone just to get off, you know. It’s better than jerking off by yourself, to have someone else with you. What, are you in love with Ben? You gonna get married, have kids, white picket fence? I didn’t get the fuckin’ memo, _shit_.” Richie ashed out his cigarette into an empty cup, and Beverly seemed to consider what he was saying as she took a long drag from her cigarette. Richie coughed, his eyes falling closed again as he tried to let himself plunge into the warm, fuzziness that felt just out of reach. He remembered the first time he had taken Percocet, how it had felt limitless and brilliant. Comforting, dulling the sharpness in his brain and making it all that much more… _easier to deal with_. He didn’t get that strong feeling anymore; but the high was still enough. It just took the edge off. It just made him feel like things were okay or would be okay. Like a chemical replication of what it felt like when he didn’t feel like he was going to be eaten alive by guilt or hatred or anger. Of what he imagined it felt like to be normal and not want to die or hurt all the time.

“No, no you don’t have to be.” Beverly finally concluded. She sighed softly, as she moved like a snake behind him. Her arms looped around his shoulders, and she nuzzled her nose into his hair. She stayed there, the cigarette burning away between her fingers. “But being with someone isn’t the end of the world.”

“That’s easy for you to say.” Richie responded, a dull lick of irritation biting at the base of his stomach. It sat there like a cold, heavy stone, and Richie put a hand to his stomach to see if he could somehow feel it there. Maybe if all of his negative energy would manifest into something tangible so he could surgically extract it and not feel anything anymore. “The world isn’t against you and Ben. It doesn’t think that you’re perverted monsters that are going to hell because you want to be with each other.”

Beverly sighed, tightening her arms around his shoulders in a half-hearted hug before she lifted her cigarette to her lips before it burnt away too far.

“If you love someone, Rich, sometimes it doesn’t matter what the world thinks. If being with Eddie feels right and makes you happy, maybe that’s a sign that the world just has to catch up. You just gotta be okay with yourself first.” She spoke softly into his hair, and Richie felt his stomach twist into an uncomfortable, cramp-like knot. He watched the way the end of his cigarette burnt away, the orange embers he would suffocate sometimes into his own skin. He swallowed, his spit thick and uncomfortable.

“There’s nothing with Eddie, Bev. There never will be anything. It’s not like that.” Richie tried to reason. He wasn’t sure if he felt a headache coming on, or if he was dying, or if he needed to puke, or if he was just trying to find an excuse to change the topic. Maybe it was all of them, all at once. Figures.

“What is it, in that case?” Beverly asked, and Richie didn’t know where to begin. But he also didn’t know if he had an answer at all. It was everything, and nothing, all at once. Before, then, and forever.

Richie smoked nearly all of Beverly’s cigarettes; but it was okay, because she drank nearly all of his Jack. When she left, she kissed him between his eyebrows and told him she loved him. And Richie loved her, too, but in the wrong sort of way. As he watched her leaving, he wondered if the world would ever catch up or if he was the one who had to learn how to run faster.

*

Richie hadn’t been sure if the birthday thing was a one-time thing or not. He had almost talked himself into believing that it may not have happened at all, that at some point he had taken one too many pills and that it had all been the product of a particularly intense high. That he had fallen asleep and had another wet dream, that none of it had really happened. But the new watch was a testament of truth on his wrist. The inscribed _‘R+E’_ that Richie was sure would somehow brand into his skin just as it had been branded into his heart for many, many years. That evening, Richie had felt as if he was outside of his own body, looking in. Watching himself like some sort of God, laughing with his friends and drinking a bottle of whiskey he had stolen from his dad’s cabinet. He was sure Wentworth bad noticed the missing alcohol, yet he had never said a word. Instead, he had quietly replaced them every time, and Richie wondered if he knew it was him and not his sister.

He had played his part perfectly, and so had Eddie for the most part. Their secret affair, and its latest progression, was kept behind lock and key. Just below the surface, a few inches deep. Ben would look at Beverly in a way that declared love in the form of a thunderous symphony. Blearing and overbearingly obvious. Richie had been declaring his love from the very moment he knew how. Stolen glances, pinned like a bug beneath glass. Yearning and pining in the form of annoyance, his voice loud but his insides so, so soft.

Eddie had only slipped up once that night. They had been talking about the death of Freddie Mercury a few months beforehand. Richie was on the hammock with Beverly, sharing a cigarette between the two of them. Richie was only partially invested in the conversation – he was just past tipsy, dipping his toes into drunk, and while he was a Queen fan, he wasn’t a superfan like Ben and Eddie were. Once Eddie had told him he liked Freddie’s moustache, and Richie had considered (and quite possibly tried) growing one out himself. It hadn’t worked out as he had envisioned at all. His interested piqued as a certain line of conversation caught his ear.

“You know, Freddie Mercury was g- gay right?” Bill had said through a mouthful of crisps, to which Ben scrunched up his nose pointedly from his perch on an upturned milk carton.

“He wasn’t gay. He was _bisexual_. Big difference, Bill.” Ben stated, his tone matter of fact. “That means he was into men and women.”

“We know what _bisexual means,_ Ben.” Stan replied flatly, to which Bill pursed his lips and looked incredibly sheepish. Stan picked up on this and sighed dramatically, putting two fingers to each temple. “Well, _most of us_ know what bisexual means with the _exception_ of Bill.”

“I mean, he died of AIDs. I thought only gay people got AIDs.” Bill commented, sounding genuinely confused. Richie propped himself up on his elbows and looked at him because _what sort of idiot was this guy_?

“Are you fucking serious, Bill Denbrough?” He snipped loudly, as Eddie shot him an equally withering look. At the same time as Richie, Eddie spoke up with an equally accusatory tone.

“Everyone can get AIDs, you fucking retard. Are you for real right now, Bill?” Eddie looked genuinely pissed off, to which Bill seemed to shrink back somewhat and give an awkward shrug. “Jesus Christ, Bill. If you weren’t my friend, I’d punch your teeth in for saying something that dumb.”

“Right?” Richie snickered, to which Beverly hummed and nodded, fiddling with his lighter that she had taken right out of his pocket.

“Well—how was I supposed to know? I don’t know any gay people. Or like—what was the other thing? Bisexual? I don’t know any bisexuals. I’m also not a doctor, I don’t know everything about AIDs like Doctor Who over there.” Bill said defensively, his arms crossing over his chest as he looked towards Eddie and Richie with clear exasperation. Mike rolled his eyes and Ben exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Bill—that doesn’t even make sense—” Ben muttered with a sigh, and Stan burst out into a fit of snickers. Mike looked like he was trying not to laugh, politely pursing his lips, and averting his gaze something vicious.

“Doctor Who? Shut _up_ , Bill. You don’t _know_ if you know any gay or bisexual people, because they probably haven’t told you. Especially if you’ve been spreading the idea that only gay people have AIDs. That’s kinda homophobic.” Mike took a sip from his can of soda as he shrugged, and Bill’s face went a tender shade of pink. He opened his mouth, and closed it, and opened it again like a fish, and Richie wanted to slam his palm against his jaw hard enough to watch it click out of place. He swallowed that thought down with a gulp of whiskey and a drag from the shitty cigarette.

“I don’t understand why anyone is homophobic anyway. Like seriously, why would you believe anything like that in the first place?” Eddie spoke up out of the blue, and Richie felt a sharp chill run down his spine. Like as if he had been somehow impaled by an icicle, all the way down his spinal column. A human kebab of _oh fuck_ , _oh shit, Eddie shut up_. “What’s so wrong with being gay or bisexual or whatever anyway? I just don’t get it. It really… It pisses me off, you know? Gay people are just trying to live their lives like everybody else. I don’t get why people are so… obsessed with hating gay people. I mean, _I, personally--_ ”

“Can we stop talking about this?” Richie interrupted abruptly. He could feel his heartbeat in his face, in his throat. His grip on the bottle of whiskey only intensified until his knuckles were white.

“What?” Eddie looked at him with clear confusion, his brows knotted and his jaw clenching tight. Richie couldn’t look him in the eye. He couldn’t. He knew what he would find there. Searching, searching. _Why_? _What was he so scared of?_

_He didn’t know_. _He wasn’t as brave as Eddie was. He never could be_.

“It makes me uncomfortable. I don’t want to talk about… about _that_ on my fuckin’ birthday. Who even cares? None of us are gay, I don’t see the big fuckin’ deal about something that doesn’t involve us.”

Eddie did drop it. But he didn’t meet his eyes for the rest of the night – and Richie ended up throwing up his entire stomach contents into the gutter on the way home. It didn’t make him feel any better.

*  
Richie was surprised, genuinely surprised, that he wasn’t failing every single one of his subjects at school. That had always been the case – he had never been able to maintain his concentration enough to be a model student, and yet he found retaining information like a sponge pretty easy. Especially in subjects he excelled in like maths and science. Things he just _understood_. He had never needed a tutor, and he was the absolute worst at homework or assignments. This didn’t improve as he entered high school. In fact, it arguably got worse. School wasn’t of particular importance to Richie. It was more of an inconvenience. Eddie, on the other hand, was a really good student. He always turned his homework in on time, and he spent considerable amount of time doing his assignments with the goal of obtaining the highest marks he possibly could. Richie often helped him when he needed help understanding some concepts, sort of like an unpaid tutor. Eddie would get pretty frustrated that Richie didn’t have to try as hard, that he just understood these things and could easily get away with doing the least he possibly could and still get a high mark. Richie didn’t mind it, though. It gave him another excuse to be around Eddie, to watch as he would concentrate on writing his papers or balancing a formula. Eddie’s career goals often changed. Richie just wanted to get out of their backwater town.

“Do you think I’d make a good doctor?” Eddie asked, glancing away from the paper he had been staring at for an hour or so now. Richie had been helping him with the weekly assigned equations for their shared class. Ironically, he hadn’t done them himself and he had no plans to. He was seated on the floor, leant against the drawers of the desk. Eddie was pulled away from the desk and angled so Richie technically between his legs. Richie had been absently rubbing a hand across the meat of his calf as he chewed a wad of abused gum, listening to his old beat-up Walkman.

“A doctor? Like, a medical doctor?” Richie asked, and Eddie hummed, looking back towards the piece of paper. “Yeah. I think you’d be good at almost anything. Do you want to be a doctor? What, Dr. Kaspbrak? It has a ring to it.”

“Yeah, it does have a ring to it.” Eddie said absently as he chewed on the end of his pencil. Richie’s hand moved up the length of his leg to his knee. He liked the way his skin was so soft, how his legs weren’t as hairy as his were. He was wearing some pyjama shorts. Light blue and white linen, tightened around his waist with a shoelace-like tie. “I don’t know if I want to be a doctor. My mom always wanted me to be one. Her dad was one, I think.”

“What type of doctor was he? A witch doctor?” Richie joked, and Eddie rolled his eyes, exhaling through his nose as he scribbled something down on his paper. Richie’s hand moved down, his fingers pressing into the sole of Eddie’s foot. He was wearing pale yellow loose knit socks. Richie liked them a lot. Eddie flexed his toes as Richie tried to massage out whatever tension he had there.

“No. I don’t know what type. I’ve never met him. Dunno why.” Eddie seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, like he was far away, and Richie was the only thing anchoring him with the hand wrapped around his ankle like an anchor. “I haven’t met anyone from my mom’s side, really. The rest of my dad’s family live in Poland, so I only have ever really had his parents.” He explained, and Richie hummed in understanding, twirling the cord of his headphones around his finger over and over in tight coils. Richie himself had a bunch of extended family. He saw them once in a blue moon; his parents weren’t the best at organising or attending family get-togethers, and Richie was not the best at agreeing to go to them. “But I dunno. Maybe I should become a doctor. What about you, Richie?”

“What _about_ me?” Richie took his headphones off, scooting over so that he could be closer to Eddie’s legs. He propped his chin against his knee, looking up at him over the thick rim of his glasses.

“What college are you applying to? What do you wanna be? You never talk about it with me.” Eddie sat back in the chair a little, looking down at Richie who shrugged his shoulders noncommittally.

“I dunno. I haven’t thought about it. I don’t even know if I’m going to go to college at all.” Richie tilted his face a little so his cheek was pressed against Eddie’s leg. He could see a little up his shorts like this, see the hem of his underwear. He licked his lips. Eddie was rapidly jiggling the pen between his fingers as he looked down at Richie quizzically.

“What do you mean you haven’t thought about it? You kinda need to think about it, Richie. It’s comin’ up real fast, you know? We should try and go to the same college. I wanna get into a good one, especially if I want to be a doctor or lawyer. I’m also looking into biology stuff, and engineering.” Eddie gently nudged Richie with his other foot, and Richie gave his toes a light swat.

“I guess I never saw the point in looking that far ahead. I didn’t think I’d ever get to that point in my life.” Richie admitted, and Eddie frowned at him, nudging him with his toes again but harder.

“You’re smart as fuck, Richie, fuck off with that bullshit. You could get into any degree you wanted, you know, you tutor me all the _time_ —”

“That’s not what I meant. I meant that I thought I’d have like… I guess I thought I’d be dead by that point, so there’s no point in wasting time thinking about something like that.” Out loud, Richie realised how morbid it sounded. Eddie’s face scrunched up a little, the playfulness behind his snappy words beforehand having completely absconded within moments.

“Oh.” He said, the one syllable popping past his lips and punctuating the air. “Why would you die? You’re not sick, or anything.”

“You don’t have to be sick to die, Eddie, you know that.” Richie frowned at him, and Eddie shrugged his shoulders, his gaze moving up and focusing elsewhere. Probably on nothing, as he did sometimes. As he had for as long as Richie could remember. He remembered wondering as a kid where Eddie would go in his head. If one day he would bring Richie along with him. Now, he wasn’t so sure he wanted to go there anymore. It didn’t always seem like a nice place to be, if it was anything like Richie’s mind. “When you go to one of those fancy colleges you want to get into, I can send you letters from where I am. Just like I did when we were kids, you know? Maybe these ones you’ll answer.” He teased, giving Eddie’s calf a playful squeeze. Eddie looked at him then, confusion written clearly across his dainty features.

“What do you mean? You never sent me any letters.” Eddie’s tone was completely serious, and Richie felt his stomach float down to his knees in an unsettled feeling. He kept his hand on Eddie’s calf, thumb pressing into tense muscle. He tilted his face so that his lips would brush against his skin as he spoke, so he could feel the warmth of him on his mouth.

“I did. I sent letters all the time.” Richie murmured softly, and he felt Eddie’s body tense beneath his touch. He was quiet for a few moments, staring at Richie as if waiting for him to laugh about the stupid joke he had just made. But there was no joke. No joke, at all. And Richie met his gaze with his own. Unwavering and honest, for once.

“I think my mom kept them all. I never saw one of them.” Eddie’s voice sounded tight in his chest, frustrated, like he was a tightly wound spring. “Of course she fucking did.”

“It’s okay, Eds. They were just stupid kid letters about stupid things. It’s not a big deal, I was probably talking about stupid shit anyway—” Richie tried his hand at comforting, though Eddie’s jaw clenched as he visibly grit his teeth. Richie pressed a kiss to his knee. Light, coupled with another squeeze to his leg. Eddie had always been tactile. Comfort came in the form of contact, and Richie was finely tuned to that.

“It’s a big deal to me.” Eddie interrupted, exhaling like he had forgotten to breathe. He grabbed onto the corner of the desk. “I just—don’t… get it. The older I get, the less I understand about my mom. I don’t understand why she did so many things, why she is the way she is. I start realising that things I thought were normal were not. Start seeing through lies that she told me that I had no idea were lies. It makes me… It makes me question a lot. _A lot, a lot_.”

“Look, Eds—maybe we should take a break from homework. I can help you destress.” Richie proposed, situating himself a little more comfortably between Eddie’s legs. He placed both hands on his knees, and Eddie pursed his lips as he looked down at him there. He reached forward, tangling a hand idly into Richie’s wild dark hair, his thumb tracing over his cheekbone. He had a frown on his face, the aging frown, the same frown he had had since Richie could remember.

“Will you write me letters if we ever are in different places again?” Eddie asked, his shoulders slumping. “I’ll get them this time. I promise I’ll reply.” Richie’s hands slid up from his knees and along his thighs, over the skin he knew was particularly sensitive. He always wanted to bite down on it, leave a mark. _This is mine. Eddie is mine_ , _don’t you know?_

“Of course, Eds. I’ll write you even now, across the road.” Richie could feel his thighs tense up before they relaxed, Eddie pushing back a little more from the desk so that Richie wasn’t at risk of bumping his head on the ledge. “Let me help you destress.”

“Are you sure?” Eddie asked, the apples of his cheeks rosy, the frown having been replaced with a small smile that made Richie’s gut swoop fiercely.

“As anythin’, darlin’,” Richie drawled in a thick southern accent, his hands moving up just a bit further, so his thumbs were able to trail along the edges of the leg holes of his briefs. Eddie shivered, his socked toes curling into the floor and his hand continuing to tangle into Richie’s waves.

“Are you gonna jerk me? I wanna jerk you too. We can do it together.” Eddie proposed, and Richie shook his head with a hum. He tilted his head, so it was resting against Eddie’s thigh. He looked so sweet – he always did. They’d fooled around quite a bit since Richie’s birthday; mainly just jerking each other off. Sometimes Eddie initiated it, other times Richie did. Sometimes they talked about it, other times it just happened organically. Just like kissing, it was almost as if they were refining a skill – Richie had begun to learn what Eddie liked the most, how he liked to be held, how he would like it when Richie would flick his wrist a certain way or teased the slit of his dick with his thumb. Richie liked that too.

“I wanna suck you off.” Richie suggested, and saw Eddie’s face contort into something like disgust. Richie laughed and continued, his hands moving to start deftly untying the tie of his linen shorts. “I’ve seen it in porn. I wanna try it. It’s okay, Eds. It’s not gonna be gross, promise.”

“Are you sure you wanna do that Rich? It’s— It’s kinda dirty, you know? Pee comes out of there.” Eddie scrunched up his face, clearly uncertain about the proposition. Richie shrugged, tugging the shorts down. Eddie was wearing some white cotton briefs that left little to the imagination – Richie could see he was chubbing up, which made his whole-body tingle with heat. 

“‘M sure.” Richie reassured Eddie, who still seemed a little sheepish and reserved as he watched every one of his movements intently. Richie had never done anything like this before. He’d only seen it done in porn, so he was pretty much going off of that as a mental reference. He regretted wearing jeans, but he supposed there was nothing he could really do about it now. He’d just have to suffer through the consequences of being hard as a rock in the confines of denim. But it was worth it if it meant being able to give Eddie head, like he had secretly been keen on for a slightly awkward amount of time. He didn’t know why, but the idea of being able to pleasure Eddie in any way just _got to him_. It had the potential to make him hard as a rock if he ever let himself dwell on the idea for a little too long. Richie shifted forward on his knees, swallowing down the influx of spit that had flooded his mouth like he was some dog. “Last time to back out, Eddie. Speak up or forever hold your peace, _hombre_.”

“Ugh, shut up.” Eddie stifled a laugh behind a hand, instead spreading his thighs just a little bit more to allow for Richie. “Okay, I guess. But don’t like… bite my dick off or something.” He mumbled, pulling a face that looked as if he had eaten a slice of lemon. Richie snorted, giving Eddie’s thigh a tight squeeze. This was already so far removed from a pornographic scenario it was laughable.

“Do I look like Hannibal Lecter to you?” Richie asked, before whipping out a pretty accurate (in his opinion) imitation. “ _Well Clarice – have the lambs stopped screaming?_ ” Eddie nearly choked on his laughter, knee jerking up as he did so and hitting Richie in the cheek. It didn’t hurt too much, but Richie wouldn’t even care if it did. He was laughing too, because this was so stupid and so typical and so _unsexy_ , and yet it was _so sexy_ in the same way. Well, fuck. Everything about Eddie was stupidly hot and sexy.

“Richie, _please_. If you don’t stop, I’m going to crush your fucking skull between my thighs and go back to calculus.” Eddie attempted to threaten Richie, but instead it made his dick twitch in his pants. He squeezed his own thighs together to try and curb the sharp shot of desire that spiked into his nervous system, and he bit the inside of his cheek.

“Eds, in all honesty, that sounds like a wet dream. Don’t threaten me with a good time, _babe_.” Richie replied earnestly, and he just knew Eddie was going to reply again. And if he did, that they wouldn’t get anywhere in the next half hour – so he decided to take some initiative and cut right to the chase. He leaned forward, using one hand as an anchor on Eddie’s upper thigh, nuzzling against Eddie’s bulging briefs. Instead of a witty comeback, Eddie inhaled sharply – grabbing onto Richie’s shoulders and sinking his nails in through his shirt. Richie inhaled deep – Eddie smelt good there, too. He smelt like Eddie did, a little muskier, and Richie had to take a moment so he wouldn’t blow his load right there and then. He didn’t, thank God, and he instead experimentally pressed his tongue quite enthusiastically against it.

“Ohmygod,” Eddie’s voice was shaky and a little strained, and Richie looked up at him to see Eddie had taken into covering his mouth with his hand. His face was bright red, almost like he was going to combust at any moment, which Richie figured was a sign he was probably doing something right. Eddie was fully hard now, so Richie took that as a cue to grab the hem of his underwear and pull them down. Eddie lifted his hips, which made it a little easier to get them down enough to get his dick and balls out. Richie had seen them quite a few times now, and yet being able to see this part of Eddie, the part no one else had, always caught him off guard just a little. It was also almost like Richie forgot just how perfect Eddie was all over and how much he liked seeing his dick. If there were any doubts before all of this about being gay, they had long been tossed to the wind and replaced with holy _fuck_ , holy _shit_.

“Stop staring, you’re making me nervous.” Eddie whined, and Richie felt himself blush as he was confronted. He hadn’t realised he had been that obvious about it; he had just gotten a little lost in his head. It wasn’t his fault Eddie’s body was perfect in every conceivable way possible, and that Richie wanted nothing more than to make him come so hard he went up to visit Jesus and came right back down again.

Richie wrapped a hand around Eddie’s dick. He glanced up at his companion, who was watching him intensely, his face unreadable yet his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. Thank God he didn’t have braces anymore, or this would not be a good experience in the least. Instead, he took a deep breath and said a little prayer before he leaned down and experimentally ran his tongue along Eddie. From where his hand started, all the way to the tip of his cock, and Eddie let out a gasp that sounded like he was shocked as his whole body jolted abruptly.

“ _Oh_ ,” Eddie squeaked, and Richie liked that noise and reaction a lot. Enough so that he did it again, except once he got to Eddie’s tip he swirled his tongue around the head. He didn’t taste bad. Richie actually kinda liked the taste, especially when he thought about the fact that it was Eddie. He was already leaking precum, which was pretty cute and made his dick throb in its jean prison. _Goddammit._ Eddie was clinging onto the arms of his desk chair for dear life, his eyes half-lidded as he watched Richie. Richie could feel those doe-eyes on him, and he let go of his cock. Instead, he planted both his hands on Eddie’s upper inner thighs, relaxing his jaw before he finally took Eddie into his mouth. Not much at first, but it was enough for Eddie to moan for him, his hand in Richie’s hair tightening like it did whenever he felt _really good_. Richie liked it when his hair was pulled like that, and he grunted around Eddie’s dick as he started to move his head. Bob it up and down, testing out a few techniques with his tongue.

Richie quickly decided he really loved sucking dick. He loved the noises Eddie made, and how his thighs were shaking, and how he was ever so slightly pushing Richie’s head downwards more and more. He liked tasting Eddie, and swirling his tongue around his dick, and he liked the idea that he was gonna come and Richie was gonna swallow it. He wasn’t even touching himself, yet it felt just as good as when he did – waves of pleasure, a steady tide, making his hips push up into nothing as his dick ached for more. He tried to take in as much as he could – he tried to deep-throat Eddie, but he ended up choking and gagging a bit, so he settled for using one hand to meet his mouth with every bob of his head. Eddie was panting and cursing and whining and moaning, loud and pretty, and Richie was thankful no one was around to hear. It was obvious what was going on, but Richie felt like it was always obvious, and people just chose to look the other way. Richie felt himself drool a little with his effort, though he was undeterred. He was even undeterred by the way his glasses pushed painfully into the bridge of his nose at times, and how they got a little in the way.

“Richie—Oh, oh my god— _fuck_ ,” Eddie sounded like he was either in pain or nearly about to cry, his free hand joining the other in Richie’s hair. He managed to look up at Eddie through his lashes, catching a glimpse of his open mouth and his furrowed brow. Richie’s stomach tightened, hot and almost painful. “Shit— Richie— _Richie_ —” Eddie attempted to warn, and Richie barely had time to prepare himself as he was pushed down. Eddie came suddenly, filling Richie’s with cum, and all he could do was swallow it as best as he could manage. He choked on it a little, but he swallowed it all like he wanted to. It wasn’t even that bad tasting, which Richie was pretty stoked about. Eddie looked wiped out, his eyes glazed over as he seemed to be trying to get back down from the sudden, intense high. His hands were still tangled in Richie’s hair, though his grip wasn’t actively snapping the strands anymore. Richie licked his lips, wiping his chin with the back of his hand to collect up any spit or whatever.

“Was that okay?” He asked, and Eddie blinked as he seemed to check back in with reality, his gaze properly focusing on Richie once more. He didn’t respond right away, a small, content smile on his face before his face registered into an expression of shock-horror.

“Did you _swallow that_?” Eddie exclaimed, and Richie grinned up at him and shrugged. He stuck out his tongue for him, to which Eddie gagged a little. “Oh my god—dude, you should’ve pulled off—”

“Why? I wanted to swallow it. Plus, you didn’t give me much warning, Eds.” Richie pointed out, to which Eddie made an exaggerated huff. He tucked himself back into his briefs, mumbling under his breath about something – probably about how gross Richie was. But Richie knew he was gross. He had accepted that, so he wasn’t about to deny himself the simple pleasure of swallowing spend when he wanted to.

“Stop calling me Eds when we do this stuff. Or like, at all. I hate it.” Eddie grumbled, moving to start pulling on his shorts again. Richie grabbed his hand to stop him.

“Wait—” He protested, and Eddie froze, looking at him in confusion. “Wait, um… I haven’t… I haven’t, you know.”

“You haven’t what— _oh_.” Eddie registered what Richie meant, blinking at him for a few seconds. “Do you want me to… what do you want me to do? I don’t know how to… to _you know_ , do that… thing.” He gestured vaguely, to which Richie shook his head.

“No, no. That’s fine. I’ll come as soon as I see you on your knees near my dick, so not a good idea.” Richie said, his voice crackling a little awkwardly. He cleared his throat, looking down at his boner as if it would give him the answers. It didn’t.

“What about… what about my legs?” Eddie asked, out of the blue, and Richie nearly bust a nut right there. He let out a strangled choking sort of noise, looking at Eddie like a deer in the headlights. Unphased, Eddie continued with his line of thought. “What if you stuck your dick between my thighs?”

“I—I… yeah—Yeah?” Was all Richie could manage as he abruptly stood up, hitting his head on the edge of the desk in his haste. He barely felt it, more feeling almost dizzy with the renewed arousal that had hit him like a freight train and left him feeling incoherent. Eddie got up from the desk chair, walking over to his bed and lying down on it. He laid on his back first, before deciding to lie on his side, and patted the spot behind him on the bed. Richie stood for a second, trying to register the situation because _holy shit this was happening_ , before he nearly ripped himself out of his jeans and jumped onto the bed. He made Eddie bounce with his enthusiasm, which made Eddie laugh, and Richie laid down behind him and awaited further instruction.

“Okay, um… Okay, how about…” Eddie started, pulling his shirt up to his nipples. Okay, weird. “Okay. I’m gonna push my thighs together, and you just… wrap your arm around my waist, and… yeah.”

“Do you have lube?” Richie asked, and Eddie shot a look over his shoulder like he was expecting Richie to be making some sort of shitty joke.

“Um, no. Of course I don’t.” Eddie stated like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Didn’t you say you were going to buy lube like, last week?”

“Yeah—I mean. Shit. Okay, I didn’t buy it. I have it though. It’s in my bag. Hold on.” Richie stood up again, awkwardly making the trek to the other side of the room to retrieve his backpack. He rifled around in it before he found the small bottle he had pocketed in the gas-station, popping open the cap and waving it around for Eddie to see. Eddie went a dark shade of red, hiding his face and looking away as he laid there, pretty as a peach, in his perfect white underwear and a shirt with a train on the front he had had forever. Richie tugged his dick once at the sight (Eddie wasn’t looking, so it was fine) before he laid back down behind him. “Okay, put some lube between my thighs and your dick.”

“Why?” Richie asked, as he was already in the process of doing just that. He poured some lube onto his hand, before straight up shoving it right between Eddie’s thighs. Eddie jumped and flinched.

“Jesus fuck that’s FUCKING cold—because you don’t want a chafed dick, do you? _God_.” Eddie shot back in slight irritation as Richie made sure to cover his upper thighs with a layer of lube like some sort of weird sunscreen application. He poured more on his hand, starting to work it over his dick. He got it a bit everywhere, and it was fucking cold and slimy and wet.

“How do you know what to do? Did you buy some sort of instruction manual?” Richie asked, and Eddie was in the perfect position to elbow him, which he did so without reservation. It caught Richie’s hip, luckily not his dick. That could have been a horrible outcome.

“I just do, okay? Hurry the fuck up or I’ll change my mind.” Eddie snapped and Richie knew he was serious, so he shut up. He wasn’t going to risk losing out on this opportunity, so he finished covering his dick in weird sex goo and wrapped an arm around Eddie’s little waist. Eddie pushed his thighs together, and Richie shuffled closer until he was able to slide his dick between them.

“Holy shit.” Richie’s brain left the building. The slide was effortless – there was no chafing, not like the few times when they jerked off and they hadn’t used enough spit and weren’t leaking precum yet. Eddie’s thighs were hot and tight, and Richie pulled him tight, flush against his chest. Eddie gasped, his thighs twitching around Richie’s dick. He slowly pulled back, before he thrust forward again lazily. Eddie’s breathing was picking up again, Richie able to feel it against his chest. “Eddie, this is so fucking good—” He groaned as he started a slow, languid pace. Eddie stayed still, softly whining and moaning here and there. He sounded so sweet and cute and Richie felt like he was almost defiling Eddie – forgetting that Eddie had been the one to suggest it out of the two of them.

“Richie,” Eddie’s voice was thick and almost sleepy sounding. “Can you… can you…?”

“What?” Richie was panting against Eddie’s shoulder as Eddie reached for one of his hands, moving it up along his chest. He directed Richie to his nipples, pushing his fingers against them. Richie circled a thumb around them, and Eddie weakly whined, pushing his ass back against Richie. He kept on doing that motion in time with the slow drag of his hips, drawing out what sounded like little mewls from Eddie’s mouth.

“ _Fuck_ , Richie—” Eddie slurred, his tone an octave higher than usual. “Fuck—you’re gonna make me cum again, Rich—holy shit, it feels so… so good, you feel so good—” Richie couldn’t hold on for much longer. He really couldn’t. He pulled Eddie as close as he could, his thrusts speeding up. The noises it made were disgusting – slick, slapping skin, and Richie wondered how good fucking must feel if this felt _this good_ , and holy shit, holy shit, the thought of fucking Eddie – the noises, the way he would look, how good it would feel, oh fuck, _oh fuck_ , being able to _come inside_ —

“ _Eddie_!” Richie nearly shouted as he came with a sharp thrust, making a mess all over the front of Eddie’s abdomen. Eddie made a weird, choking-sob sort of sound, his hips stuttering upwards in a weak thrust sort of movement, before he became limp in Richie’s arms like a rag doll. He was breathing as if he had run a marathon, and Richie felt as if all of his bones had liquified as he saw all the stars in the galaxy behind his eyelids.

“Wow,” Richie croaked, blinking a few times to make sure that his vision wasn’t going to remain slightly blurry forever and it was just the effects of one of the best orgasms he’d ever had in his life. For a small moment, he wasn’t sure if Eddie was even alive. He hadn’t made a noise, nor moved. “Eddie? Are you alive?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m alive,” Eddie sounded winded as he responded, shifting a little bit and making a grossed-out noise. “I need a shower so bad. I have your come all over me, and I came in my fucking underwear.” Richie raised his eyebrows a little.

“But you like, jizzed in my mouth?” Richie questioned, and Eddie grumbled weakly in protest at Richie just being _Richie_.

“Yeah. I came a second time, I think.” Eddie said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Richie had no idea that was even possible but judging from the way Eddie seemed as if he was halfway in some sort of coma, he wasn’t bullshitting. And it was pretty cool to think that he had made Eddie feel that good that he came twice, so he’d take it in stride and work with it. Richie didn’t move from where he was laid, holding Eddie close and just… being still for a bit. He was trying to get his wits about him, but he also wanted to just be there with Eddie for a bit. Listen to his breathing even out. He could pretend that this would last forever, and that things would be okay for them. He could pretend that they were lovers, and that they’d secretly run away and be happy together. He could pretend that Eddie was his boyfriend, and that Richie’s parents loved their love and that they could go to the cinema and the store and hold hands and not _care_. He could pretend there was a long story ahead of them, that there was no devil lurking around every corner, and that Richie wasn’t selfish and disgusting and horrible.

“Hey, Rich?” Eddie asked softly, after five or so minutes of nothing. Richie didn’t want to reply. He knew that it could very possibly, and most likely, end this momentary bliss that he revelled in. That he would have to come crashing back to earth like a comet, creating shockwaves within his own life. That he would drag himself back into his bedroom and crush up a Percocet or drink until he felt like his eyeballs would fall back into his throat, so he wouldn’t have to think about how he was a black stain on the fabric of the universe. How he was destroying everything for everyone. How he was hurting Eddie, ruining him. How this would only end in tears. How no one could possibly ever understand. How he should just do it sooner or later, because really, what was there to lose when he had nothing in the first place?

“Yeah, Eddie?” His nose pressed into Eddie’s shoulder, and Eddie moved just slightly, his small hand placing atop of Richie’s as it had laid flat on his sternum. He could feel the steady thrum of his heart beating away. Eddie was so alive. He was so alive.

“I’m… I’m sorry.” His voice sounded so small it was nearly nothing at all. Richie’s organs seized inside his skeleton, and he felt as if his skin was two sizes too small.

“Why are you sorry, Eds?” He didn’t want to know, he didn’t want to know, he didn’t want to _go_.

“I… I’m not… good. I’m not good. I’m not a good person, Richie. I’m sorry about that.” Eddie’s shoulders shook a little with a particularly unsteady breath. “I know what you mean about… about not thinking you’d make it that far. I really do, more than you know. When I was living with my mom, in Boston, I— I’d do a lot of things, because I… I just didn’t want to… to deal with it anymore, you know? All of it was just so hard, and my mom was just so… She could be the perfect mom and then become the worst thing ever with the flick of a switch. She’d love me in one moment and hate me the next, and I think… I think she did a lot of things, bad things, that I’m only starting to realise now and it’s fucking with me. It’s scaring me now. But when I lived with her I just… something inside of me kinda… clicked out of place. And it’s never clicked back in. And I would hurt myself, and I… I made these plans, Richie, because I thought that maybe it was just better if I died. That it would be better for everybody if I did. My mom wasn’t ever gonna let me come back here, you know. And one day, it was a really bad day, and I—I swallowed all this medication because I was so angry and so upset and I wanted to get back at her and hurt her and hurt myself and I didn’t care if I died. I went to hospital. After that and some other stuff, I came here.” Eddie’s back felt tense against Richie’s chest, his hand gripping onto Richie as tight as he physically could. It hurt. His hand hurt, and his words hurt, and Richie felt like he was made out of stone. Cold and unable to move, his heartbeat dulling to a thudding stop. “I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I don’t want anyone to know. I don’t like talking about it. I guess I… I know my mom is sick in her head. I love her, and I know she’s unwell. I’m just scared that I got that sickness inside me too. I think I do have it too, and that scares me so much Richie. I don’t… I don’t want to be like that. I don’t want to be like her.” Eddie’s voice cracked a little at that last comment, and Richie pulled him close. As close as he could, as if that would make it better. He didn’t know how to make it better. He didn’t know how to fix any of it.

“You’re not like her, Eddie.” Richie said softly. He closed his eyes, feeling his eyelashes brush over Eddie’s skin. “I promise, you’re not like her. It’s okay. You won’t ever be like that.”

“How do you know that, Richie? I think I already am like her, and that makes me want to tear myself _apart_.” Eddie’s breathing was beginning to escalate again, and Richie’s arm around his waist tried to trace circles with his thumb over his hip. He wanted to take all of Eddie’s pain, shrink into his cell count, remove it and take it into himself. He wanted to go back in time, and fix this before it all happened. He wanted to cup Eddie’s face and tell him that he loved him, he loved him, he loved him, he loved him, and that that would make it okay.

“I just know, Eds. There’s so much good in you. You’re the _best-est-est-estest_ person I know. You always have been. I promise. I swear. Do you trust me, Eds?” He asked, and Eddie nodded ferociously. He moved his smaller hand, intertwining it with Richie’s tightly. It made Richie’s heart jump into his throat, and he squeezed it.

“More than anyone ever, Richie. I trust you.” Eddie’s breathing started to calm again, a crisis averted, and Richie pressed a feather light kiss to Eddie’s shoulder that he knew wouldn’t be felt. He wanted to ascend into the heavens with Eddie, away from all of it. From the pain, and from the suffering, and he wanted to go through Eddie’s brain and pluck out all it was that hurt him so. He loved him. He fell asleep with the watch on his wrist every night. He would trace his fingertip across the inscription, and he would close his eyes. He would imagine that same inscription on the inside of a golden band, and he would sometimes cry. Because in another place, in another time, maybe he could meet him at an altar instead of behind a closet door. 


	16. (in)significance part 1; 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The house was safe. The house was dark, and empty, and no one would be able to see a thing that happened inside of it. Up until that point, Richie and Eddie had never faced the world as they were about to that night. They had always been the two unlikely best friends who talked a lot of shit and never did much of anything. Up until that point, they were seen as the same kids from all those summers ago but in larger bodies; expected to grow up and into themselves and fill in the templates society had given them at birth. Those outlines had long since begun to feel like they were drawn in white chalk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for waiting for this chapter! I decided to split it into two parts as it's a long one, but I hope you enjoy part 1. Thank you so much for all of your continued support, it really means so much to me I can't even begin to describe!   
> Stay safe, much love.

The Tozier family car was a piece of shit. The Oldsmobile Cutlass had sat in the driveway of the home for practically all of Richie’s life. It had been steadily falling apart year after year; the upholstery was worn and torn, and there was a growing patch of paint flaking off from the body near the right-hand passenger door. Years of to-and-froms, school pick-ups, and occasional family road trips (that never really happened anymore) had begun to weather and wear it down. It had a few ‘quirks’ to it, too, that Richie figured were indicators that it was probably less than safe to drive – it rattled and squeaked, and sometimes the steering wheel was a little iffy. So, when Richie got his licence, and his dad happily handed him the keys to the Cutlass like they were the keys to a brand-new Chrysler, he figured that maybe his parents had planned this all along. That they had purposefully bought a car with the intent to keep it until it barely drove at all, only so they could give it to Richie and hope he lost control so that they wouldn’t have to get rid of him some other way. It wasn’t as if Richie wasn’t grateful. He _was_ – but he would have much preferred to have a car that wasn’t eligible to graduate high-school in a few years, like the Ford that now sat in the Cutlass’ old place on the driveway. It was a dark, serious navy, the Ford was, and Richie couldn’t help but think that his white piece of shit looked like a clown-car beside it. But hey – at least he had wheels. At least he could _drive._ He was able to be that little bit more independent now; something he had been working towards for months. Even if the car was far from the best in looks and functionality, it still _drove_. And that meant that Richie could, within reason, go pretty much anywhere he wanted to. And that thought made him so restless he could barely sit still for more than five minutes. Not to mention, school had just finished for the summer, leaving Richie with plenty of time to spare, and Eddie free from the constraint of homework and assignments and _responsibility._

Summer, at sixteen, was a vastly different concept than it had ever been. Richie could still remember the countless hours he had spent as a child, riding around on the beaten-up bike he had long since outgrown yet still rode around on. He could remember skipping stones and jumping into the quarry, collecting worms in empty soda cans, seeing how high he could climb up the branches of the tree in the park. He remembered blood blisters on his hands, scrapes on his knees, and waiting for Eddie to come, waiting for Eddie to leave. A lot had changed, as it always did in a year. But now sixteen, things had become a lot more complicated than they ever had been. Richie understood more than he ever had, and he realised that he didn’t understand much of anything at all. The Losers, once small weedy kids who always seemed to stay that way, had grown into young adults – and they were different now, too, but still the same. It was only a matter of time until the Losers Club would fracture into distinct pieces once their lives in Derry, Maine concluded and the real-world called out for them in the form of college acceptance offers and the like. The rest of the Losers, even Beverly, had their lives intricately planned out for them. _A + B = C_. They knew what and who they wanted to be, what they wanted to do, and yet Richie felt vague at best because he didn’t even know who he was right at that moment. He thought about following Eddie to wherever it was he wanted to go, but he figured that maybe that was a little weird and Eddie had his future planned out for himself like a goddamn science. He would talk to Richie about it sometimes, explain every little detail. There was an optimism, a determination he had that made Richie sure that he was going to achieve everything he wanted to, and that made him feel sour. And it scared him too, because he knew that in a matter of time, his carefully constructed life in Derry would be torn to shreds and he would have to start all over again. That Eddie would go and chase the life he wanted for himself, while Richie sat on his hands because he didn’t really want life at all. Life, and all of it’s components, were too much and too broad for him to handle. The idea of having to be an adult in the real world, in the world that was already set up against him, made him feel woozy. But he couldn’t stay in Derry, so he had to find an in between. A crack in the wall where he could exist without being truly seen. Where he could forever live vicariously through his childhood memories without having to attend to his every-day. He was expected to go to college, he was expected to find a wife, he was expected to have children, he was expected to do so much. He didn’t want any of it, at all. He just wanted to stay locked up in Eddie’s room forever. He didn’t want to grow older than sixteen, or seventeen. He didn’t want to have to live up to the expectations that sat on his chest at night, expectations he knew he couldn’t meet no matter how hard he tried. He could clean up his act over the summer, maybe. Start going to church group activities, start catching up on study and assignments he had missed. But he wasn’t going to, because he knew there was really no point. Some people were born to live sad, unfulfilled lives. Some people were born to cause disappointment and pain, some people were born for no reason at all. The only thing Richie wanted to do over the summer break was get high, get drunk, see Eddie, and spend time with the Losers. Some of those could very easily co-occur, though Richie generally tried to stay sober when he was alone with Eddie. He felt like he didn’t need that high or numbness as much. He _wanted_ to feel instead of avoiding it, he wanted to be there for every moment and every second. And he knew Eddie didn’t like it when Richie drank or would pop pills, or when he smoked. But Richie didn’t like it when Eddie would take all that medication he wasn’t sure he needed, or when he would have bandages and band-aids on his skin for wounds that were far from accidental, or when he wouldn’t eat and lie about it, or when he would get worked up and never tell Richie the reason why.

They had their reasons, but none of them were good, and it wasn’t okay, but it was, because it had to be. And they had to be, so it was. Richie missed the simplicity he had taken for granted; it had been so easy as a child. But then again, maybe being a kid hadn’t ever really been that easy at all. He couldn’t tell anymore. Sometimes he couldn’t tell the difference between reality and his dreams anymore. It all seemed impossibly far away, and Richie was getting further and further out of touch.

*

“Can I stay at your place next weekend? Saturday?”

It was a hot day. The sort of hot that made people retreat inside of their houses, locking themselves up in rooms with blinds drawn and fans switched on the highest possible setting. Stan had once told Richie that he had fried an egg on the cement of his driveway on a similar sort of day back when they were ten-or-so. At the time, Richie remembered believing his word because he was the sort of kid to take everything anyone said as the truth. Looking back, he highly doubted there was any validity to that claim at all, though he found himself wanting to try it. He was not sure if they had eggs or not in the refrigerator at home, though, and he wasn’t going to pester his mom to go buy some before grocery day just so he could crack a few on the floor _just because Stan had said so when they were ten._

Richie pulled the shirt free from sticking to his body like a sweaty second skin, shaking it a little as if hoping it would create enough air to cool him down by a few degrees. Instead, he just smelt his own sweat, which was less than an optimal outcome.

“Next weekend? My family’s going out of state from Friday to Sunday afternoon for some family thing.” Richie answered. He was smoking as the two of them sat at the base of the big tree in the park. The park itself was completely barren of all signs of life apart from the two, who had been there for a small while now. Eddie had peeled off his shirt and was lying across the grass in the shade afforded by the expansive canopy of branches sprawling above them, clad in some blue nylon runner shorts that clung to his thighs perfectly. Just shy of an hour ago, Richie had pulled those shorts down enough so that he could suck Eddie off in the private sanctuary of the dilapidated clubhouse. Eddie had returned the favour – he had sucked Richie off for the first time a few days prior and found that he really enjoyed it. Richie thought he was pretty good at it too, though it wasn’t as if he really had anyone as a point of comparison. Eddie couldn’t fit all of Richie in his mouth, which he had been pretty upset over, but he ended up meeting his mouth with his hand in some weird BJ-hand-job combo that made Richie feel so good he had had to lean against a support beam to keep himself upright.

“Cool, so I can come over, right?” Eddie asked, one arm behind his head and the other resting on his chest. Richie watched him as he laid there, staring up at the leaves above them. With the hand that wasn’t holding a cigarette, Richie trailed his fingertips across the bark of the tree that had always stood the test of time. He could feel the long-healed over traces of familiar engravings. Primitive, childhood practice he longed for once more, so badly it ached in his stomach. Eddie turned his head, tilting his chin so he could look at Richie, and Richie licked the sweat free from his top lip. He could feel it trailing down the nape of his neck, down his spine. He could see the sweat on Eddie’s skin – on his forehead, his temples, his neck, his chest. He wanted to slide his tongue over his body and collect it all up. Maybe he would have, if the park wasn’t a flat open plane where they could be seen from a good distance away. “Babcia won’t be home that night, and I don’t want to be home by myself.” Eddie explained, though Richie didn’t really need an explanation and he knew Eddie knew that too.

“Where’s she goin’? Bingo-night-sleep-over-night? Goddamn, I wish I had got an invitation, but I think your babcia’s got a new boyfriend, the sexy thing.” Richie commented, tapping the ash free from his cigarette. Eddie sluggishly kicked his hip with the toe of his sneaker, and Richie caught his ankle in his hand. He tightened his grip before he placed Eddie’s foot atop his thigh. He wanted the contact and the closeness without fear of getting seen. This was safe. The only reason they were out in this heat was because it was _safe_.

“Yeah, whatever, Tozier. She’s outta your league.” Eddie waved a hand, before he sighed and propped himself up on his elbows so he could sit himself up. He joined Richie with his back against the tree, sitting so close Richie could feel his radiating body heat. He could smell Eddie too – his deodorant and cologne, his natural smell, and his sweat. He liked the smell of Eddie’s sweat. It made him want to take those shorts off again and bury his face between his legs right there, under that tree that had been the first place they had ever really hung-out. Who would have ever thought it would turn out the way it did? Was it a good thing, or a bad thing? “Besides, I was thinking,” Eddie began, to which Richie snickered an _‘uh oh’_ and earned a sharp elbow into his ribcage, “you know how you have your car now? What if we like… what if we went somewhere? Like for a drive. We can go to a cinema in a different town, where nobody knows us. I think it could be… you know… fun, I guess?” Eddie spoke in a rush, real fast, and Richie’s head struggled to decode the slew of words. The day’s intensity, followed with the fact that Richie had still been shrugging off the effects of some Valium (or something) he had taken the night before that morning, meant that his brain felt particularly fried. But he got the point. Eddie was actively avoiding any sort of eye contact, instead having taken to picking at an old scab on his knee. Richie took Eddie’s words, and he chewed on them, and he swirled them around in his head before he swallowed them. He let them sink into him, inhaling smoke, exhaling.

“Like… a date?” Richie asked, and it sounded dumb to his own ears because of course it was dumb, and he followed it up with a half-chuckle laugh because of course it was a joke. Of course, it was. “What, you wanna go see a horror movie so you have an excuse to be all over me in the dark?” It was a cheap shot, a cheap joke, but Richie felt as if he had to say it. Because if he didn’t, what else would he say? It would be wide open, an open, gaping wound, ready for Eddie to shove his hands in and pry until he was ripped in two. Eddie didn’t laugh, though. He picked at the scab on his leg until it bled, wiping the blood across his skin with his thumb before bringing it to his mouth absently.

“Yeah. I suppose so, yeah. Like a date.” Eddie responded, finally, and there was a lightness to his tone that didn’t match up with the gravity of the situation that Richie felt crash down on his shoulders. “I mean… I guess. I just want to… to hang out with you, and I thought that would be fun. We don’t have to, we can stay in Derry, we can do whatever. It’s fine.”

“No—no. I mean… Shit. No, let’s not stay in Derry. It does sound fun.” Richie said quickly, not wanting Eddie to have the time to completely withdraw the offer. He didn’t know what this was. He didn’t know how to feel. He didn’t know what any of this meant. He had never known. His mouth felt dry, and he knew he was dehydrated as fuck but he didn’t have anything to drink with him. He swallowed, painfully, the sound popping in his ears. “You pick the town, we can leave here at 6pm. Just make sure no one sees you leave the house to come to mine.”

“Don’t worry, Richie.” Eddie said, but he was full of worries. He watched Richie’s hands, the slight shakiness to them that he could never rid himself of unless he was taking pills or drunker than a dog. “No one ever notices. Besides, what’s a movie between two best friends, right?”

On that day, Eddie must have felt particularly brave; because he sat on the back of Richie’s bike for the first time and rode that way with him for the entire ride home. His arms and legs wrapped around him; Richie never wanted the road ahead to end. He would happily ride into the sunset like this – feel Eddie’s closeness against his back, until he became part of the sky that could be with Eddie no matter when or where or how.

What was anything between two friends, anyway? Nothing, nothing. But everything, _everything_.

*

Richie didn’t tell his parents that Eddie was staying over. He didn’t tell them about the plan to go to the drive-in cinema a few towns over. It wasn’t that he feared being told that he wasn’t allowed to do those things – his mom had even encouraged him to invite some friends over, had even hinted at inviting a girl as they ate dinner silently, as a family, around their ancient wooden table. Richie had shrugged off the idea, saying that he wasn’t really planning on doing much except catching up on sleep. He didn’t know why he lied about it. It wasn’t as if they suspected that anything was going on with Eddie, or if they did, they didn’t let on. And it wouldn’t be weird for Richie to invite his best friend to spend the night while his family were out of town. It was just so effortless now, lying about it. It had become a second nature for Richie to cover his tracks, even when it was needless. He knew if they were to find out about the fact that he had invited Eddie over after all that it would be a lot more suspicious than if he was upfront about it. But he didn’t bring it up. He didn’t correct himself, didn’t take the numerous opportunities presented to him to tell his parents. Like so much in his life, Richie kept it close to his chest. Eddie was a secret he knew he had to keep no matter how deeply the bruising went. He was scared that if he let go, just that little bit, that it would unwind entirely and the truth would come spilling out. Blatant, ugly, bright and blinding.

Maybe Richie would be shipped off to live with his grandparents, or sent to conversion therapy (he had seen a leaflet for it at his mother’s church, which had been part of the reason he had stopped going), or maybe he would just be thrown out into the street and told to make his own way. Maybe Eddie would be forced to move away, and Richie would never see him again. The thoughts of what could happen to Eddie, if any of this came bubbling to the surface, were the worst. Anxieties that run deep into his very core, down to his bone marrow. Eddie would be gone again, and Richie wouldn’t know if he was dead or alive or somewhere in between. If there was a hell (Richie wasn’t sure at this point if there was anything at all), it would be just that – a permanent limbo, never really having an answer to a question he was always too scared to ask. For someone who was always the loudest voice in the room, Richie feared a whole lot.

There was a small town just about half an hour or forty-five minutes outside of Derry that Richie had been to once or twice for reasons he couldn’t remember. Like Derry, it was suburban and bland with nothing memorable to its name. A town where people lived their entire lives without being a blip on the universe’s radar. No one came from small towns, nothing happened in small towns, people could be born and be forgotten the moment that they took their first breath. Unlike Derry, it had a drive-in cinema that played films into the late hours of the night. Derry had it’s own cinema that Richie had frequented many times over the years, with and without Eddie and the Losers. It was small and run-down, and the seats were always a little too lumpy or itchy against your skin when they were sat on and probably had never been washed once. But he had never been to a drive-in cinema before; he had seen them numerous times in films and had begged his parents to go to one when he was a child. But they hadn’t wanted to spend the money on the gas, tickets, and snacks. Not to mention, the whole process would end up pushing Richie’s bedtime out way too far. Now Richie had a car, and no curfew, and he had some cash he had saved from doing extra chores (and had possibly borrowed from Wentworth’s wallet) so there was nothing stopping him.

The days that came before that Saturday seemed to drag on and into each other, extending far beyond what felt normal. Richie felt as if each day was at least five-times it’s length, that the nights went on forever. The anticipation for what was to come – whatever it was – felt like a dull thrumming beneath all the layers of his skin. A steady beat, a drum, a buzzing, a voice. Richie and Eddie saw each other plenty before their ‘assigned time together’ – and yet they didn’t speak of it once. They didn’t clarify what it was, if it was a date or a hang out or anything at all. They only spoke of it the day after they had hung out at the tree, when Eddie told Richie about the drive-in cinema and that he would be waiting at his doorstep to leave at 6pm. They continued with their days, doing what they always did, but there was… _something_. Richie caught Eddie looking at him more, caught him looking away. Eddie’s hand would touch his arm or Richie’s hand more. Eddie’s kisses were more insistent, his touches laced with an edge of intensity that hadn’t been there before. There had been a time in the clubhouse in which Eddie and Beverly were having a conversation, quiet and hushed, while they shared a can of soda between them and Richie could feel the hairs bristle on the back of his neck with the knowledge that they were talking about _him_. He didn’t even have to ask. He didn’t want to know. He didn’t want his voice to crack when he asked Beverly what it was Eddie was talking to her about – he didn’t want to feel her eyes, burning as brightly as her hair when it caught the sun, looking through him and _knowing and seeing_. Beverly had known Richie was in love with Eddie before Richie even knew himself, yet she had never said the words. Her gaze was enough, and sometimes Richie would rather set himself on fire than have her look at him that way.

By the time Saturday did roll around, Richie was thankful that his family had left the night before. Granted, Eddie had been busy all of Friday, so Richie had spent the day hanging out with Stan and Ben. He had bought a new shirt – it was expensive, more expensive than any of the clothes he had in his closet. But it was kinda spiffy, and it was nice, and he wanted to wear it for Eddie the next night. Stan had teased him over the price-tag, asking him who it was he was trying to impress. Of course, Richie let him know that it was his mother he was after, but he couldn’t stop the blush that flushed the apples of his cheeks at being caught out. He had ordered pizza that evening and had eaten it on the sofa as he watched re-runs of old movies on the family T.V. with an entire bottle of Jack right beside him. He drank until his body felt warm and his sight was pleasantly blurred, finding himself bored and drunk and alone once the pizza was gone and the movies had lost his interest. He somehow made his way up the stairs and into bed. There, he thought about Eddie. He thought about him so much it hurt – he thought about how he could feel the love he had for Eddie all over his body; knotting in his muscles, settling heavy in his stomach, constricting around his heart. He thought about him, and he thought about how beautiful he was all over, and how beautiful the sounds he made were. He thought about Eddie’s face looked when he orgasmed – he had memorised it like a psalm, had it inscribed into his very soul. He touched himself, imagining Eddie’s hand instead of his own and trying to mimic the little flicks of his wrist. He came hard; and he moaned Eddie’s name into an empty house.

*

There was little to no movement to be seen from Mrs. S’ house for the entire day. Richie knew this because after he woke up at 1pm with a bitch of a hangover and dragged himself out of bed so he could shower, he sat on his porch and smoked half a pack of cigarettes. If he didn’t know any better, he would have thought the house had no one inside it. It was almost eerie, and Richie almost thought that maybe he ought to go and check in. But he didn’t. Eddie was busy, and so was Mrs. S. With what, he didn’t know, but it wasn’t his business. He was also scared of what he might find if he did drop by for a random visit, or ruin some carefully constructed plan Eddie had put into motion. Whatever it was, Richie spent a good few hours doing just that. Sitting on the front porch, his sneakers propped up on the small wicker table in front of the wicker sofa that he was pretty sure someone may have died on at some point. A few weeks back, he had put an empty soup can on top of it so he could use it as an ashtray. By the time 4pm rolled around, Richie stared hard at Eddie’s place. He tried to look for any sign of life, for a flutter in the curtains, for even the slightest movement. Nothing. Richie finished his cigarette, smashing it beneath the toe of his Chucks, and headed back indoors.

*

Throughout the entirety of Richie’s first and only serious relationship, he had never once really put in that much of an effort to look good. He had figured there really was no need, considering she already liked him enough to want to date him in the first place – so it only made sense that he didn’t focus that much on appearances because there was truly no point. It was really kind of silly to dress up now and make himself as handsome as he could for someone he had known for nearly his whole life. Richie had never tried hard to impress anyone. Yet still, Richie found himself doing just that. He ironed his new shirt, he showered. He put on some clean jeans and his nicest sneakers. He styled his hair a little, cleaned his glasses. He moisturised his face after he shaved, he sprinkled on his dad’s best cologne. He even plucked a few stray eyebrow hairs. Richie was almost impressed in how he looked. He was cleaned up and _almost_ handsome, and he knew Eddie would know he was trying hard. But it was too late to change now – it was 5:50pm, and Richie felt like he was going to shit out all of his internal organs all at once. If he wasn’t going to be driving, he would’ve had a drink or taken something to take the edge off. But he was stone cold sober, much to his immense displeasure.

He didn’t even know if this was a date. God. God, he should call it off. He should jump the back fence and run far away so Eddie thought he ended up going with his family last moment. Maybe he ought to tell Eddie he had an awful stomach bug, maybe Eddie wasn’t even going to show up— Fuck. He couldn’t do this. This was too much. He was going to humiliate himself. He was going to make Eddie see how much of an idiot he really was. Eddie was gonna figure him out – it was obviously a joke, the whole date comment, and now Richie was here dressed _for a date_. Could he even play it off? Could he even pretend like he was just running with the joke? That would be so obvious. Too obvious. Eddie would know, and he would figure out that Richie was actually fully gay and then everything would go to shit because Eddie would hate him forever and he would have to find a way to kill himself or change his identity and move countries so he could live isolated forever and never speak to another human being again so he wouldn’t hurt anyone and—

A knock on the door.

_Fuck_.

Richie closed his eyes. He took a deep breath that made his stomach churn.

Another two knocks.

Eddie knew he was home. He couldn’t pretend like he wasn’t, not with all the lights on and some re-run of a movie playing loudly in the downstairs. As Richie walked out of the bathroom and down the stairs, he felt as if he was walking to his death. That he was walking to the gallows where he would be exposed for what he was, his crimes read out to the public. He could barely drag himself to the door, his heart pounding so loud in his ears he was sure he was going to go permanently deaf from the noise. This was it. Just a joke, Richie. It was just a joke. Just a joke.

The only joke here was him. His whole fucking life was a goddamn fucking joke, and he was the punchline.

Richie’s hand slipped off the curve of the doorknob as he tried to turn it, so he wiped it on his jeans before he tried again. The door opened, and Richie prepared himself for what he knew was his endgame. For Eddie’s incredulous laughter or his horrified realisation, for a snide comment or remark he would have to laugh off as if it didn’t mean shit and that he had been planning this as part of a long-standing game of gay chicken. He didn’t even realise his eyes were screwed shut behind his glasses, his breath held, until he heard Eddie’s voice pierce through his internalised flood of scathing self-loathing.

“Are you okay, Rich?” There was no sharpness. Eddie’s voice was soft, and soothing, with an edge of amusement to it. It wasn’t the sort of amusement that was at his expense, wasn’t the sort with cyanide laced into every word. Richie opened his eyes, swallowing the creeping cold bile that rose up his throat and tickled the back of his senses. The sun was beginning to set, casting a golden yellow-and-orange glow across the contours of Eddie’s body and face, catching on the highlights of his hair and the apples of his cheeks. Richie noticed that Eddie looked as if he, too, had put effort in to what he was wearing and how he looked. He was wearing some nice looking light, loose blue jeans, cuffed at the ankle, and some smart looking business-esque shoes. Looped through the jeans was a brown leather belt with a slightly tarnished gold buckle. He was wearing a well-fitted cableknit sweater that reminded Richie of oatmeal in its colour. He looked… apocalyptically beautiful in that moment. Apocalyptic because Richie knew Eddie was both the beginning and the end of his world at the same time, especially in that moment. His hair was styled a little, out of his face, and he smelt like expensive cologne and Eddie, and Richie wanted to grab his face and kiss him until the world crashed and burned around them.

His heart was pounding still, but now, it was for another reason entirely. Richie swallowed, and Eddie’s smile only broadened a little, and he looked over his shoulder before he stepped forward so that they were inside Richie’s entryway and free from falling prey to prying eyes.

“You look smart,” Eddie spoke again, and Richie realised he was completely lost for words and he wasn’t even trying to look for them. Eddie was close, close enough that he could place two hands on Richie’s chest, his delicate fingers tugging at the collar of his expensive button-up. “I was worried I was going to be the only one who put any effort in.”

“Me too,” Richie breathed, and he found himself smiling, and his body was aching in a way that felt so good, so good, and Eddie leaned up and kissed him. Just a small, tender, chaste kiss, yet it nearly knocked Richie off his feet. “You look… you look real beautiful, Eds.”

“Men can’t be beautiful, idiot.” Eddie chided softly, swatting at Richie’s forearm. Richie turned his hand and caught Eddie’s wrist before he could completely pull away.

“Yeah, they can. You’re beautiful, in like… a manly way. Like, in the sort of way where people would paint portraits and make marble statues of you way back when. You know?” Richie watched as Eddie’s bottom lip caught between his teeth, his cheeks tinging with a petal-like blush. Richie’s entire body and brain felt numb, and he placed a hand on Eddie’s hip. Just lightly, a ghosting touch, and Eddie’s hands moved independently over his chest and down his upper arms.

“Well, you look handsome, so… suck on that, Tozier.” Eddie retorted, and Richie didn’t know what that was even really supposed to mean, but he had never been called handsome before in his entire life by anyone who really mattered to him so he nearly choked on his own saliva in response. He _wasn’t_ handsome. He knew he wasn’t. He knew Eddie was probably saying as much because he felt as if he needed to return Richie’s awkward compliment, but still, he felt the words nestle themselves deep inside him, somewhere where he could unpack them later on when he was alone and think about it over and over and over until it lost all meaning or sense.

“Should we go? We gotta buy tickets,” Richie said, and he felt like an idiot the second he spoke, but Eddie nodded and grinned up at Richie like he put the stars in the sky instead of consistently pulled them down. Despite his words, Richie didn’t make a move. He felt rooted on the spot, feeling overwhelm start to creep in on him. His tongue felt thick and dead in his mouth, and Eddie was staring right at him, and Richie was staring right at him back, and his head was pulsing. He wanted to ask. He had so many questions. But he couldn’t find the right words, and he wasn’t sure he wanted the answers because that made it real and he wasn’t sure he was ready for that yet. He didn’t want to risk getting his hopes up only for them to get torn down. If Eddie broke his heart, he wasn’t sure he could ever come back from that. If he could glue together that many little pieces with hands that never cooperated, if he could even find them all.

“We should go,” Eddie repeated, and Richie nodded hastily. The house was safe. The house was dark, and empty, and no one would be able to see a thing that happened inside of it. Up until that point, Richie and Eddie had never faced the world as they were about to that night. They had always been the two unlikely best friends who talked a lot of shit and never did much of anything. Up until that point, they were seen as the same kids from all those summers ago but in larger bodies; expected to grow up and into themselves and fill in the templates society had given them at birth. Those outlines had long since begun to feel like they were drawn in white chalk. Richie took a deep breath, and with all the courage he could muster (which wasn’t very much courage at all), he stepped out into the newly born evening. He impulsively checked for any sign of life on the street and found it absolutely still and silent, with the exception of a neighbourhood cat slinking around the car in his adjacent neighbour’s driveway.

“Richie, it’s okay.” Eddie said, softly, and his fingers brushed over Richie’s as he stood on his porch, and he looked at Eddie – he really looked at him – and he asked himself if doing all of this, doing all that he was doing, was worth it. Was Eddie worth being found out and caught, being outed? Was it worth it, to be with Eddie in any way, and have the whole world turn against him in a moment? Richie’s heart was not still, and it was so loud, and he hoped; he hoped to god it was worth it. He told himself he loved Eddie, and he knew he did, and he told himself that surely, it would be worth it. In the films, in the movies, people risked everything for the person that they loved. It was better to have loved than not at all and all that shit. But he found as he closed and locked the door behind him before walking to his shitty ancient car and taking a seat behind the wheel, that he didn’t know.

He didn’t have the answer, but he had the hope and that was enough to prompt him to start his car up and begin to drive.

*

For the first ten or so minutes, Richie didn’t say a word and neither did Eddie. He couldn’t even pluck up the courage to look at Eddie again, who he could tell from the corner of his vision was picking at the sleeves of his crewneck and looking out the passenger side window. The question, the same one that had been lingering at the forefront of his mind for an entire week, now had clawed itself into his consciousness with enough force that he could barely think of anything else. He was gripping the steering-wheel so tight it sent pain right up his forearms, his nails digging into the splitting leather. Eventually, as they finally exited Derry and all Richie could see in front of him was highway, he felt the words finally fall into place in his brain. Like some shitty fridge magnet poetry set. Maybe it was the fact that they weren’t in Derry; that it was just them on the highway, speeding towards a place where they were unknown and insignificant. Maybe Richie just wanted to brace himself for the impact of what felt like an inevitable fall. He had been riding high for way too long, and whenever there was an up, there was always a long way down.

“Eddie?” The silence, broken. Richie adjusted his grip on the wheel, his palms sticking to the surface uncomfortably. Eddie looked at him, his hands joining in his lap. He didn’t wait for a response. “What… what do you think about… about being like… _gay_?” The question felt palpable. Eddie’s eyes were on him, his hands wringing, picking at his nails. Richie remembered watching him pick at his nails until they bled as a child on many occasions and never thinking anything of it. He was starting to think a lot about a lot these days, understand the multidimensionality behind every human action and word. It placed a heavy burden on his shoulders.

“I um…” Eddie said, softly. He didn’t need to speak loud, as there was no radio playing. Yet Richie kind of wished there was something more than the sound of wind against his vehicle. “Do you want me to be honest?” Richie never knew what he wanted. But he did, all the same, and it prickled at him like he was being stung by poison ivy wrapped around his entire body. A searing burn, his whole being crying out as he battled with his desires and his crippling fear of being known and seen. “Would you hate me if I said that… If I said that I um…” He trailed off, his breathing audibly shuddering a little as he brought one leg up to his chest and he melted against the car seat. He was biting his lip, looking out the window again, his hands having migrated to his knees. He squeezed them tight. “That I think I might be… you know… like… I think I’m gay.”

Richie nearly swerved his car. In his mind’s eye he did just that, and ran off into a ditch, and the car flipped and caught on fire. Richie died, and Eddie lived, miraculously unharmed. Eddie would live a happy life where those words were never uttered – not because Richie hated him for what he had said, but because now they were out in the air and said between the two of them, they couldn’t be taken back. And if Richie was dead, if he died in some tragic accident, Eddie could pretend like they had never been said and he could go on living in the safety of lies that he had never told. Lies he had come into this world blanketed by. He could wrap them around himself, around the truth, like Richie had for so many years in an attempt to snuff out the flame burning inside him. A flame he feared could catch and turn into a forest fire, destroying everything in it’s path – including him. But the road ahead of them remained uniform, and Richie’s foot remained firmly on the pedal, and Eddie looked at him, and looked at him, and looked at him.

He didn’t know what to say.

He didn’t know how to feel.

He didn’t know what he had expected.

He didn’t know if he was really as shocked as he told himself he ought to be, or if he was relieved, or if he was anything at all.

“I don’t hate you.” Richie’s voice didn’t sound like his own to his ears, distant and disembodied. “Is this… Is this… Is this a date?” He cleared his throat, and Eddie’s swallow was audible over the crackling static of tyre hitting asphalt road. His head was incoherent. He didn’t know what reaction he wanted. He didn’t know if he wanted to tell Eddie that he was gay too, that he understood. If he did, was there a requirement for them to be together as the only gay kids in Derry? Richie wasn’t ready to tell anyone, for people to know. He wasn’t ready. He wasn’t sure he would ever be ready. He had so much to lose, but Eddie didn’t have much at all. It wasn’t fair to hold him to the same standard.

“Can it be?” Eddie asked, and his voice was small. Smaller than Richie had heard it in a long time. Unsure, like it had been whenever Eddie had talked to his mother on the phone. Cowering. Richie’s lungs weren’t working properly anymore. He had assumed this was going to be a date; he had even dressed accordingly, and yet… having to face it for what it was was almost too much for him to handle. It was too real. Eddie, real Eddie, not dream Eddie or imagination Eddie or memory Eddie, was beside him in the car in that moment. Ever since he had understood his longing for Eddie, at an age so young it felt wrong in a weird way, he had thought of a moment like this. He had constructed this scene in a million different settings, different timelines. Cinematic, almost. “It doesn’t have to… to be anything, really. I’ve just never been on a date before, and I um… I would really like it if it was… you know. A date. You know?”

“Yeah,” Richie replied, his voice a weird crackling croak from the back of his scratchy throat. “It can be a date, if you… if you want. I mean, that’s what I thought this… this was, which was stupid but hindsight is 20/20, and I guess I was just overenthusiastic or whatever and I, you know—you know, thank you for telling me, Eds. Thank you for um… for telling me… telling me… that, that fact about you. I didn’t know, like… color me completely surprised. Caught off guard, I’ve been punk’d since the beginning. I thought you were planning on homewrecking my parent’s relationship just so I couldn’t make ‘your mom’ jokes anymore without it being super weird.” Richie’s mouth opened, and a million words flew out at the same mile per hour ratio as his speedometer, and Eddie snorted back a laugh, stifling a chuckle behind the hand he had pulled his sleeve over nearly completely. Trying to hide, from what? What scared Eddie, really? He was braver than Richie could ever dream of being.

“Seriously?” Eddie asked through the remnants of his laughter, “Richie, we’ve been hooking up for weeks now, and you’re telling me you didn’t think I was gay? Not to mention, you’ve known me since forever. I’ve never once been interested in a girl, and I’ve always dressed like… you know. A… a _fruitcake_. Even my mom was onto me, and you’re telling me you never had an inkling about the fact I was _possibly_ gay? Not even after the time I lied to you about having a girlfriend just so you would kiss me? Richie, come on. You never thought my obsession with Indiana Jones was slightly homoerotic, or the Thundercats?”

Richie felt his face get hot, and he thanked God that the car was dark enough that Eddie would probably be unable to tell. All of his insides felt like boulders, pulling him down towards the core of the Earth where he would be completely incinerated and destroyed.

“I just thought you were fashionable, okay? Sue me for not wanting to assume. It’s not like being gay is a super popular thing, especially in Derry.” Richie’s brain was flatlining, panic beginning to paint-roll onto the insides of his skull. He felt cold and hot and clammy and sweaty. He was treading a fine line, a super fine line, and he knew with one wrong word Eddie would know.

Why was that so bad? Eddie was gay. He knew it ought to be okay if Eddie knew, because Eddie was gay _too_. And maybe in a perfect world, Richie would be over the moon with this information, instead of stone cold with dread. Maybe he would take the opportunity to be with Eddie in the way he had always dreamed of, saying _fuck you_ to the world and loving without fear or shame like Bev had been trying to push him to do for ages. But for some reason, Richie wished Eddie wouldn’t have ever told him. Now he knew it was possible. But it wasn’t possible. It wasn’t. Richie would lose everything, he would have nothing. And what if this was all a joke? What if it was a trap? What if Eddie was lying, just so Richie would fall into it and confess?

“I um… I appreciate the courtesy, Rich, I… I guess.” Eddie murmured, chewing on the inside of his cheek as he looked out the window again. “Maybe one day I can be gay and not have to worry about if it’s _popular_ in Derry or anywhere else. Before I left my mom’s place to move here, before I did that thing I told you about, she was going through all my stuff in my room because she was convinced I was hiding something from her. And she found some… stuff, and she hit the fucking _roof_. Told me she was going to get me fixed, that she didn’t want to have some faggot as a son. I hate that word – _faggot_. She really laid in on me, told me all about how what I was was an abomination, about how filthy and dirty and perverted it was, and it’s really ironic, because her boyfriend—” Eddie cut himself off abruptly. It was as if he remembered Richie was in the car in the first place, and he pressed his lips shut and frowned down at his hands. He balled them up into fists. He was quiet. No more words, nothing. But Richie knew there were so many words inside of him, words he was swallowing down, words that Eddie had always kept inside of him under lock and key. Richie wanted to unlock them, to let them free, but he also knew he was the biggest hypocrite on the goddamn planet.

“Your mom is probably the worst mom I’ve ever heard of, Eds. Hands down. She could almost be a super villain in a movie, she’s that bad.” Richie said, and he knew it was brutally honest and could potentially backfire; but he also knew Eddie well enough. And he wanted to get the topic away from being gay, because Richie felt like there was only so long he could continue treading water until he began to choke on it and get pulled under the surface.

“Part of me knows that what she’s done and how she is… is bad. Like, I know, rationally. But it’s complicated, Richie. She’s my mom, you know? I love her, even if she…” Eddie trailed off, and Richie was convinced that he would go quiet again. That he would sit atop the cage of words he had carefully constructed as a young child and reinforced over the years. Untouchable, the part of Eddie no one – _no one_ had ever heard or seen. The small child that still sat inside his chest, the one that made him hurt himself in all the many ways he always had.

But Eddie spoke up. Quietly, but steadily. Staring ahead at the road, at the marked lines being swallowed by the Cutlass. Maybe it was being away from Derry and temporarily being nowhere really at all. Maybe none of this even really mattered. Maybe Richie had swerved the car.

“Before my dad died, he was getting a divorce from my mom. And they were going to go to court because he thought that my mom wasn’t a good mom. He said that she was unwell and needed help, and that she was abusive and manipulative. I found out recently that he was a doctor at the hospital she had been a nurse in. My babcia told me. My mom always told me he had worked for the government or something.” Eddie’s words were measured. Almost rehearsed, like he had been thinking these very lines over and over. A script, prepared for the right moment. Richie wasn’t sure he was the right person to talk to about this, or about anything, but he bit down on his tongue hard enough that he tasted blood as Eddie continued. “But then he got sick and died. Some legal stuff did happen, so I ended up seeing Wendy from a very young age and stuff. My babcia has been involved for a long time, too. I don’t really know the details very much. This is all stuff I learned real recently, like in the past few years. Part of me knew that what was happening at home wasn’t normal, but I always figured that I could have it worse, right? I had a home, a roof over my head, I had clothes, I had food. My mom could be so nice, and she could be my best friend sometimes, so I figured it wasn’t ever that bad. And I trusted her, and I had no one else, so I had to trust her.” He glanced at Richie, who shifted in his seat and nodded a little, which was enough for his counterpart. “I guess I just sort of began… realising things. Especially after coming to Derry in the summers. Meeting other kids and their families and realising that some things that happened were weird and shouldn’t have been happening. And it got worse at home as I got older, and my mom got her new boyfriend, who just made it _worse_. He—he took me out to the lake one day, Richie, and we went real far out on the boat, right into the middle of the lake. And he touched my thigh, and he told me that he thought I was really special. And I never wanted to be special for anyone ever again after that, because it made me feel like there was something rotting deep inside of me. I wanted a dad so bad, I guess, and he wasn’t the worst all the time. He could be real good, like a real dad. Just sometimes – like when he would touch my leg under the table, or one time when he knew my momma had drank some and taken some of my Klonopin on the sofa and he told me he’d give me fifty if I put my hand in his pocket.” Eddie’s words were faster now. Hot and heavy and almost angry sounding, and he was balling his hands up against his legs as he bounced one rapidly in place. “I took that money so I could use it on my way to Derry if I ever got to go back. I don’t know, Richie. I don’t hate my mom. I sort of hate her boyfriend because I know what he did was wrong. But I think she knew and she just didn’t say anything, and that… that fucked with me. It fucks with me. All of it does. _You know_?”

Richie didn’t know. He didn’t know at all.

“I… yeah, I know.” He lied because that was what he was best at doing. That was all he had ever done.

“I’m scared I’m already ruined. I’m scared that they already ruined me, Richie. My mom and her boyfriend. I’m scared I’m ruined and no one will ever want me and I’ll be alone forever, and that I’ll be older and unhappy and married to someone I hate because I hate who I am.” Eddie looked at Richie, and Richie’s eyes moved from the road for a split second. He caught those eyes with his; the way the streetlights reflected in the deep pools of emotion. Richie felt like a puppet whose strings had been violently pulled taut by a merciless invisible hand.

“You’re not ruined, Eddie. And I won’t let that happen to you, okay?” Richie reached out, and with a hand that was always shaking from what he never wanted to admit was probably becoming withdrawal, he took Eddie’s in his. Like the first time Eddie had ever opened up to him about his father dying while the two of them were at the abandoned railroad. Except now, they were on a proper road and it was so many years later. It still felt like yesterday. He still felt like a child. Naïve – or at least, he wanted to be naïve. But he wasn’t really, because he knew. He, now, understood things like the fact that Eddie was being abused by his mother at home, and that her boyfriend had been using her in some way to get to Eddie. Richie promised himself that if he ever became like that man, he would put a gun down his throat.

“Promise?” Eddie asked. Richie felt Eddie’s hand turn, his small palm pressing against his and their fingers interlocking.

“Promise,” Richie responded, softly, before following up with a gruff imitation of Batman, “It’s my civil duty, Robin.”

And Eddie laughed, and Richie held his hand until he couldn’t anymore, and he hoped his car broke down and they would never get back themselves back to Derry.


	17. (in)significance part 2; 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And Eddie made him feel, he made him feel, he made him feel more than he ever had, and it wasn’t bad, and he was so tired of hating that fact. He was tired of resenting the fact that Eddie made him feel like everything was worth it and beautiful and that there were all the chances in the world and a promise for the future. Richie wanted to reach deep down into himself and pull out his heart and his soul and push them into Eddie’s awaiting hands. He wanted to tell him that they were his, always, always, always. That he wasn’t sure he could ever feel this way ever again. That he was so scared, always so scared, and he wasn’t sure if he ever wouldn’t be. That he wanted to take those risks. He wanted to do it all, with him. He wanted to finally be able to let himself love, fully and wholly and truly. These were yours from the moment I saw you, Eddie Kaspbrak. Do with them what you will but know that I think you are the best thing I have ever had in my life. You are beautiful, you are beautiful, and I love you I love you.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for my brief hiatus. I hope this chapter finds you well.
> 
> This chapter contains sexual content.

During his relationship with his ex-girlfriend, Audrey-Marie, Richie Tozier had gone on plenty of ‘dates’. Most of the dates he had been on had not been his idea. If it had been up to him, he wouldn’t have gone on any dates at all; he had found them annoying and to be a waste of time, as he had millions of other things he would rather be doing than playing house with a girl from his year level in school. Marie had even paid for most of them too – that wasn’t entirely his fault, considering her family were substantially more well-to-do than his own, so he didn’t have nearly as much access to money. Now, when he tried to think back on those dates he went on (and he knew he had gone on a fair few), he could only remember a handful of them. Going to feed the ducks, going to the mall, going to the cinema to watch Marie’s pick in movies, going to a burger joint Richie could never afford. He usually checked out during those dates they spent together; he just went through the motions. He held Marie’s hand, he listened to her talk, he had dry conversations with her about vapid topics. He would hold her bags for her when she went shopping, he would compliment her. In his brain, they were nothing but blurred smudges in time. Richie displacing himself for someone else – the Good Boyfriend, the Good Son. And in trying to do those two things, he had effectively failed in both respects. He hadn’t been a good boyfriend, and he hadn’t ever been a very good son.

After that failed relationship, Richie had gotten stuck on the idea that dates were stupid. A waste of time caught doing things he hated doing, with someone he was forced to tolerate. He hadn’t ever considered that he would go on a date again. He hadn’t ever considered, for a _second_ , that he would go on a date with another guy. And he hadn’t ever thought, for a moment, for a _speck of time,_ that his years-and-years’ worth of dreams and fantasies would come to fruition and that he would be on a date with Edward Kaspbrak from Boston who had the face of an angel and a machine-gun mouth.

 _Maybe he had crashed his car_. Or maybe he had drunk too much and took too many pills one time. Or maybe he had gotten hit on his way to school, or maybe he had died in his sleep. But being dead, and this being heaven, would imply that he _deserved_ to walk through the pearly gates. And God knew, _oh did God know_ , that Richie had been destined to be part of Lucifer’s entourage from the moment he had felt the flicker of a spark deep inside of him ignite into a soul-consuming blaze that was his destructive desire. Being wanted was normal. Everybody wanted to be wanted; but not _like that_. Richie had never wanted to be what he was supposed to want to be; and it wasn’t fair, because he had never really had the chance. He had never chosen to be that way. He didn’t _want_ to be gay, and he tried so hard, so, so hard not to be. And it kept happening, and it never stopped. It made Richie angry at God, if there was one, because how was it fair for him to not even have the chance to pick the _right choice_ when it had never been presented as a choice for him in the first place? Maybe God wasn’t _all that_. Maybe he wasn’t all that great as everyone made him out to be – maybe he really was just kind of an asshole.

Finding the right screen for Batman Returns wasn’t all that difficult. They were early enough that they had managed to get a good spot for themselves; though that, in itself, made Richie break out into nervous sweats with the paranoia that _because_ they were among the first to arrive, people would pay more attention to them. That they would be able to somehow see into the windows of his car and _know_ that they were on a date. In his mind, Richie was almost convinced that the car would be surrounded by a hoard of onlookers, peering in through the windows, somehow knowing their names, gawking and condemning their very existence. Realistically he knew that was a highly unlikely occurrence; he couldn’t see through the windows of other cars around them, and the night was pretty dark, and they were in a town they had both never really been to. They were anonymous, blanketed and protected by darkness, and Eddie seemed to take comfort in those facts more than Richie did. He had always been so brave, and Richie wondered when he would realise that he was made up of nothing but fear and anxiety. He was loud because he had to be, like a colourful frog, warding off predators. _Don’t get close, don’t get close, or my poison will course through your veins_. But instead of killing, he would be the one to wither up and die.

“We should get snacks. You can pay for those ‘cause I got the tickets.” Eddie declared after Richie put the car into park. Richie looked around, finally spotting a little building he assumed was the snack area. The neon signs advertising various drinks and ice creams were gaudy and malfunctioning – he could nearly hear the faint buzzing from where he sat in the sanctuary of the Oldsmobile. “How’s that sound?”

“Like, both of us? Go to the snack bar thing?” Richie asked as he pulled out his wallet. He wiped one hand on his thigh, but that did nothing to fix the clamminess of his palms.

“Apple-solutely, genius. I don’t know what you want, I don’t even know what they have.” Eddie rolled his eyes with his reply, unbuckling his seatbelt. “It’s fine. No one’s gonna know. You don’t gotta get all weird about it.”

“I’m not getting all weird about it.” Richie said defensively, though he knew that he very much was being kinda weird about it all. He always had been. He just didn’t want to admit that, not when Eddie had obviously started to clue in on it. With a huff and an incoherent grumble, he unbuckled his seatbelt, shoving his wallet into his pocket and stepping out into the cold night air. It had dropped in temperature significantly as they had drove, and Richie waited until Eddie was out before he locked his car and walked around to his side. He shoved his hands into his pockets, and Eddie did the same – and it looked kind of ridiculous, but Richie didn’t know what else to do with his hands. Really.

They walked towards the soft glow of neon, the gravel crunching beneath the soles of their shoes. Richie felt light all over, like he wasn’t really in his body. He tried not to look at Eddie too much, but he stole a few glances here and there. He couldn’t help it – he was just so perfect all the time, and Richie had been drawn to him like a magnet since the very first moment he had laid eyes on him.

“Have you ever been to a drive-in cinema?” Richie asked, and Eddie laughed aloud and shook his head no. He seemed a lot less tense than Richie did, his shoulders pushed back and relaxed. His brows were not furrowed, and he wasn’t frowning. It was like being away from Derry left behind all of that. Richie wished he could feel the same way, wished that being far from home meant he could shrug off the weight that constantly pushed down on his shoulders. He thought maybe it would, but it turned out self-hatred wasn’t something you could just shed yourself free of with a change in scenery.

“Of course not. Derry was the first time I’d ever gone to a cinema at all. My mom always told me they were germ-traps and that I’d contract all sorts of shit from sitting in one of those seats. We’d always watch the movies together at home on the sofa, which kinda sucked when I started to get older.” Eddie admitted, looking over at Richie. He could feel those brown eyes on the side of his face, and Richie told himself to stop clenching his teeth so hard.

“And you still went to the movies in Derry, even after your mom told you about the possibility of contracting streptococcal from a cup holder?” He sniggered, and Eddie elbowed playfully, bumping into him with a swing of his hip. Richie swallowed so hard it popped in his eardrums, and he wished he could hide his face behind the stiff collar of a puffy winter jacket.

“Yeah. I did. You wanted to see Masters of the Universe, remember? I was convinced I was gonna get some sort of bacterial infection or have a seizure or something. Figures, huh?” Eddie pulled his hands free from his pockets as they approached the isolated building, pulling open the glass door that had a big, faded and outdated movie poster plastered across it. Richie was right – the neon lights buzzed and flickered, casting weird shadows across the cement and gravel. He thought about turning around and going back to the car; about getting in, and starting it up, and driving back to Derry so he could get back into bed where he ought to be. But Eddie turned to him, with that wide boyish smile, and Richie’s hands clenched into fists in his pockets. Eddie, all those years ago, had been terrified to go to the cinema with Richie and yet he still did. He could, now at least, return the favour. He owed Eddie a lot. Little did Eddie know, but Richie felt like he owed him his fucking life and he had no idea how to repay him for that. But he figured, as he walked into the building behind Eddie, that this was a start.

*

After knowing Eddie for years in a way that he considered to be quite close and intimate, Richie had thought that he knew Eddie fairly well. That he had seen every aspect of him, nearly every facet to his personality. Most of the time, he could predict what Eddie was going to do. He could tell from the way he held himself, or his breathing pattern, or his facial features. Sometimes he could even guess the words he was going to say, or the way he was going to say them. But as they got snacks – Eddie elected for popcorn for the both of them, and Richie bought two sodas and a bag of mixed candy to share – he felt as if he didn’t know Eddie that much at all. Everything about Eddie felt so different then, yet strangely familiar all the same. He almost reminded Richie of the Eddie he had come to know many summers before. It was the sweet-spot, he figured, as Eddie had begun to pull away from the choking tendrils of his mother but was not yet clamming himself up so tightly he rarely ever let anyone get a glimpse inside. He held himself with less intensity, less tension in his shoulders and neck. He didn’t turn in on himself, didn’t make himself small and unseen. No, Eddie was there and he didn’t care if anybody saw him, didn’t care if his presence was known, didn’t care if anybody’s eyes lingered in clear curiosity. Richie felt as if he was taking a backseat as he watched Eddie seem to radiate beneath the dingy lighting that he was sure was flickering just slightly. He could barely pay attention to the shabby, slightly sticky 60’s-diner-themed décor. This Eddie wasn’t held back. By what? He wasn’t even sure. But this Eddie had pulled away from that and was so brilliant Richie couldn’t help his tunnel vision or the throb of his heart.

It was dangerous, because Richie was already so in love with him, _so in love_ , and holding onto someone like Eddie would only serve to scorch his hands to the white bone. All he could do was stand back, leaning against the vinyl red seat of the booth as Eddie, with Richie’s wallet in one hand, animatedly ordered for the both of them after asking him what he wanted. Richie, only able to stutter in response, had said the first thing he had laid his eyes on – the bag of mixed gummy candy and the cans of soda. He didn’t even like that sort of candy all that much, yet it tasted that much sweeter as they walked out of the most-likely-roach-infested building towards the silhouette of the Oldsmobile Cutlass. Eddie had the soda under his arm, the popcorn in his hand. He walked close, close enough that he brushed against Richie. Close enough that it was _too close_ , and in Derry Richie would’ve pulled away. But here, in the middle of nowhere where nothing really mattered all that much, where the popcorn was unreasonably greasy and the candy was almost too sweet to handle, Richie didn’t move. He let Eddie’s hand ghost over his forearm, his fingers brushing over his hand. He linked them then, two fingers.

They had held hands a few times, but this was different. This was somewhere where people could see; where they weren’t protected from the eyes of those who didn’t understand. It felt fiercely controversial, like somehow, they were seconds away from being tackled to the ground by an armada of men in S.W.A.T vests. Like they were the people throwing bricks in Stonewall, the one history lecture that had Richie feeling like he entirely consisted of jelly and as if he had no joints and pipe-cleaner limbs. Richie counted the steps back towards the car as they walked like that. He waited for someone to pull them aside. He waited for a voice (oddly specifically, the voice of Henry Bowers) to call out _faggot_ , for a punch to the middle of his back. He waited for the horrified screams, the mothers ushering their children (that looked a lot like Richie) towards their vehicles. But none of that happened. Richie looked at Eddie, and Eddie looked at him, and as they closed the distance between their bodies and the hunk of metal that was a very outdated vehicle, he slipped their hands together. Palm to palm. And he smiled, and Richie swore he could see entire galaxies in those eyes, and Richie felt brave enough to take on the entire universe.

*

Richie had been wanting to see the Batman Returns movie for months. He had been eagerly anticipating the appearance of one of his childhood heroes on the big screen, the hours he had spent scanning the pages of comic books being translated into a cinematic universe. And yet, he found that he could barely concentrate as the film was projected onto the white-painted wall. He and Eddie sat in the front seats that had long been worn down to be threadbare. The Cutlass had no middle console – so they were able to sit together in the middle. The popcorn was between Eddie’s thighs, and the candy on the dashboard as the movie began and the music played through the car’s radio sound system. Richie could see the reflection of the movie dancing in Eddie’s eyes. Watched the way he stared and blinked slowly, putting popcorn into his mouth, piece by piece, crunching down on them and chewing. He glanced over at Richie, grinning at him as he caught on to his stare.

“Stop staring at me!” Eddie said through a fit of giggles, and Richie felt his face heat up at the confrontation.

“I wasn’t staring, shut up.” Richie grumbled, to which Eddie’s grin only widened and he threw a piece of popcorn at Richie’s face.

“You _so_ were. I fucking caught you. Watch the movie, dude.” Eddie chastised him lightly, and Richie’s collared shirt felt almost like it was choking him as he forced his gaze to the screen. Eddie moved in closer, so their thighs were flush, their sides pressed together. He rested his head against Richie’s shoulder as he kept eating popcorn – Richie had barely touched it, but he did not mind at all.

Nothing felt real. But all the same, everything felt real all at once; and he felt suspended in mid-air – like a cartoon character that had headed off the edge of the cliff and was scrambling before they inevitably fell. During most movies, Richie made running commentary throughout the entire thing. For this one, he couldn’t find a single word. All he could do was experience Eddie; the warmth of his body, the soft laughter, his smell, the way he looked. His mind reeled at the fact that he had gone out of his way to look so nice for him – _just for him!_ That he would let Richie so close, that he would let Richie touch him and kiss him. He felt as if he had never done a single thing to deserve Eddie in that way, and yet he couldn’t help but want more. He couldn’t help but turn his head so he could push his nose into Eddie’s hair. Couldn’t help but press a kiss against his scalp. He couldn’t help but pull him closer as he got drunk off of the _possibility_. He was so _sick_ of all of his strict rules and self-restraint. So _tired_ of having to constantly reassess everything he ever did, of hating himself and how he felt. He was tired of making himself not feel all the time. He felt so much, so much, all the time. He had since he was small. And Eddie made him feel, he made him feel, he made him feel _more than he ever had,_ and it wasn’t bad, and he was so tired of hating that fact. He was tired of resenting the fact that Eddie made him feel like everything was worth it and beautiful and that there were all the chances in the world and a promise for the future. Richie wanted to reach deep down into himself and pull out his heart and his soul and push them into Eddie’s awaiting hands. He wanted to tell him that they were his, _always, always, always._ That he wasn’t sure he could ever feel this way ever again. That he was so scared, always so scared, and he wasn’t sure if he ever wouldn’t be. That he wanted to take those risks. He wanted to do it all, with him. He wanted to finally be able to let himself love, fully and wholly and truly. _These were yours from the moment I saw you, Eddie Kaspbrak. Do with them what you will but know that I think you are the best thing I have ever had in my life. You are beautiful, you are beautiful, and I love you I love you._

Why was it all so bad? Why did everybody hate it so much? It felt so right. It felt so perfect and normal and good. It felt more normal to Richie than so many things, to be in love with a boy that he’d known for so long and to go on to love him for as long as he could.

“Hey Rich,” Eddie said, and Richie let his eyes close, feeling Eddie’s voice reverberate through his body and into his, “Danny Devito looks _just like you_ in this one.”

“Fuck you, dude.” Richie laughed, and he didn’t know why, but he wanted to cry and _cry and cry._

*

It was when Batman reached the Penguin's lair when Richie realised that paying for a ticket had been a waste of money. Not because the movie was bad – or maybe it was, there was no way for him to tell; considering he hadn’t paid much attention to it at all. In his brain, there was an endless list of things that felt to be noticeably more important to attend to than what was unfolding on the cinema screen. He felt as if he was in some weird limbo state. A state where he was there but he wasn’t all the same. Where he was painfully aware of every tiny detail of his current situation yet thinking at a million miles an hour. He didn’t even know what he was thinking _about_ , only that it all revolved around Eddie. That wasn’t unusual. Eddie was often a topic of interest to Richie’s conscious and subconscious; however, this was different. He was running through everything all at once, like some fleshy supercomputer. Going through years and years of memories; back and forward and back again like a flipbook. The Eddie of past, present, possible future. Of course, Eddie was blissfully unaware as they shared popcorn and candy, as he sipped at his soda, as he cuddled into Richie.

He kept thinking back to when they watched Jaws together. Thinking back to the first time he had ever held Eddie’s hand in his to comfort him. Back to the forest, amongst the trees that had seen hundreds of years and then some. How many times had they seen boys like Richie and Eddie; been passive audiences to the same story? Eddie standing up to Bowers, bloody and radiant and _proud_. Richie was trying to figure it all out. The sequence of events, the nuances, what it all meant. The meaning behind everything, behind Eddie’s words, his actions, his behaviours. He was trying to understand, and it was hard because he didn’t even know what he was trying to understand at all. Maybe he was trying to understand why any of this was happening. Maybe he was trying to understand Eddie; the complexities that never ended, the twisting and turning that made up his person and everything around it. The unfolding of events that Richie should have seen coming but never did. Or he didn’t want to, because that would mean having to come to terms with things he knew he was far from ready for.

He was combing a hand through Eddie’s hair, his cheek pressed to his head as Eddie practically laid across him. He could smell the popcorn and candy on his breath, and Richie wanted to kiss him to see how it tasted on his tongue. He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to disturb him, didn’t want him to move. The weight and warmth were comforting in such a deep, carnal way that it was almost alarming. He had realised, early in the evening (and it had felt like a stab to the gut with a butcher’s knife), that this was a feeling that he would go a whole lifetime without. That this was something that most people could have without a second thought; that Richie would spend his entire lifetime double-checking, looking over his shoulder, waiting with bated breath. He couldn’t help but feel ill as he considered that that was the case for Eddie too. That, if he was gay like he had claimed to be, the world was already against him more than it had been in the past. That he, like Richie, had been set up by an unmerciful universe to fail. And with that thought, and all the thoughts that came with it, Richie felt nearly as if he was mourning. Mourning the life he had wanted for Eddie. A life free of complexity, a life of finding-the-one-and-settling-down, the white-picket-fence-and-kids, the _right life_ he was _supposed to have_. It scared him to think that Eddie might end up being hurt over and over and over again – that he was stuck in some weird spin-cycle of misfortune and abuse. Richie could barely contemplate the _what now_ and the _what then_ of his own life; he could barely see a future for himself at all. He had seen so much for Eddie; a life roadmap in which he would end up being happy and having a wife who loved him and a career he was good at and a million friends. A life in which he wouldn’t need Richie, and Richie would be able to fade into the background. Disappear. A life in which Richie’s sole purpose was a means to and end to make sure _Eddie was okay_. But now, he wasn’t even sure if Eddie was ever going to be okay. Richie had wanted that for him so much, so much. How could he break it to Eddie that he was sure it wasn’t ever going to get better? That being gay was just a short-hand way of saying that you were doomed to a life of self-hatred and pretending? How could he tell Eddie that the best way to ensure that things would turn out sort-of alright was to start lying and never stop? How could he tell Eddie that he was gay too, and that he was in love with him? And if he told him, if he told him _any of that_ … what then?

What if he had turned Eddie gay? What if he had spread it into him, and ruined him, like he had been so scared about? Surely, he had been the reason for this. He had corrupted Eddie, he had destroyed any chance he had had. The dark inky-black that had been eating away at him inside since he could remember had somehow seeped into Eddie’s pores and made a home in him too. And it was his fault, and he didn’t know how to fix it. He didn’t know how to fix any of this, how to make it all go away. Why did he always ruin everything he cared about? Why did he ruin everything he loved? Why hadn’t Eddie just stayed away from him like he should have, and why did he keep coming back? Why did he let Richie touch him, or kiss him, or hold him like a lover?

And why did it all feel so natural? Why did it feel so okay, as if their souls had been intertwined from the beginning of time? As if this was just the way it was supposed to go? Why was it so easy to love Eddie, and to be with him in the way Richie knew he ought to be with a woman? Why was it so bad? Why was loving another boy so evil, so filthy, so wrong? Why did nobody understand, or even try to?

“Stop thinking so much.” Eddie murmured, and for a long while Richie thought it part of the movie’s dialogue. Only when Eddie spoke again did he realise he was speaking at all. “I can feel it. You’re thinking too much again. Stop thinking so much. You always think so much.”

“I can’t just _stop thinking,_ Eddie.” Richie retorted, a little more sharply than he had intended. Eddie turned his head and pulled back so he could look at Richie, his eyes near black in the dim light. “It never fucking stops. Not unless I’m on pills or something. Not even when I want to sleep.”

“I know,” Eddie said, and he reached up and cupped a hand against Richie’s neck. His thumb over his jugular, making Richie keenly aware of it’s pulsating. “At least tell me what you’re thinking about. Please. You never tell me what you think about so much.”

“I…” Richie wanted to. He wanted to tell Eddie everything he had ever hid from him. All of his secrets. He wanted to come clean, to unburden himself of what felt like twenty lifetimes of crossed to bear. But his mouth was always too dry, and his brain could never find the right words, and he was always too terrified of the unknowns and outcomes. “I can’t, Eds. I want to, but I can’t.”

Eddie’s lips pressed together, and he looked at Richie for a little longer. Like he was waiting, like he was wanting him to say something more. But nothing came, and Eddie’s shoulders fell a little as he wordlessly shifted to look back at the screen. And Richie apologised in his head, as hard as he could, repeatedly, for the fact that this was all his fault.

*

Despite having spent nearly the whole duration of the movie obsessing over multiple existential crises lined with a thick sediment of self-loathing, Richie’s brain was completely wiped the moment Eddie put his hand on his leg. The movie was nearing it’s obvious conclusion, and they had been silent for the past small while as Richie lamented over every single thing he had done wrong; mentally tracing over his own choices to pinpoint when exactly he had poisoned Eddie, when it all had taken a sharp left into _you’re-both-doomed-drive_ fresh off of _going-to-hell-highway._ He had sunken so far into his own head that he hadn’t even considered that the movie was going to end at all, and that the date wouldn’t simply end once Batman faded into the background of their lives once more.

It seemed that Eddie, as always, had been thinking ahead. That he had made plans and had every intention of executing them. Right then, and there, and Richie was brutally yanked out of the mental squalor he was wading through and into the _then and now_. Mostly because Eddie’s hand was on his leg. On his thigh, up quite high, and sort of angled towards his crotch. Richie took a few seconds to register the action; the way he was squeezing just a little, his fingers and palm pressing into the fabric of Richie’s nicest pants. Richie looked down at the small hand, and he looked at Eddie – who had taken to sitting with his legs over Richie’s, his back to the car seat. The sides of their bodies were flush together. Richie, a few years ago, would have killed to be this close to Eddie. He would have had hundreds of fantasies and desires he would want to play out – not all of them sexual, most of them surprisingly lovey and sweet. Now it felt unnatural to not be close to Eddie. He had made a home for himself where their skin would meet. Maybe one day he would sink deep into Eddie’s pores and be able to find himself nestled there. Tucked away, never spoken of, but always there. He could fall asleep to the echo of his heartbeat, thrumming steadily away – and as beautiful as it sounded as a metaphor, it just accentuated how much he was, by nature and desire, just a parasite.

Richie needed to swallow, but he felt that if he did, Eddie would be able to hear. And for some reason, that wasn’t an option, so he didn’t. He didn’t know what to do at all. He wasn’t even sure what Eddie was after, if he was being too presumptuous with regards to his intentions. That cleared itself up pretty quickly as Eddie’s hand moved further along the inside of Richie’s thigh, and Richie felt as if his organs had all shifted upwards into his throat in an uncomfortable jumble of possible-crippling-future-medical-debt.

“Eds?” Richie said, his voice soft and unsure, and Eddie hummed. It was low and he barely caught it, but it was there. Eddie’s hand pushed between Richie’s thighs, and he parted his legs just a little so Eddie could begin to rub his thumb in patterns. There was a knotting of warm interest in Richie’s stomach, and he licked his lips subconsciously, exhaling a steady but heavy breath. Eddie looked away from the screen and towards Richie, the corners of his mouth quirking up a little bit. Richie wanted to push his tongue past those pink lips, wanted to kiss him hard enough to bruise his pretty face. He wanted to drink him up, to watch those eyelashes kiss the tops of his cherubic cheeks as his eyes closed with pleasure overwhelm, wanted to push up that probably expensive sweater he was wearing and see the pale smooth skin of his flat stomach, dip his tongue into his bellybutton before he swallowed down his cock. He was getting better at it, he tried practicing with cucumbers in the privacy of a locked bathroom--

“Did you like it?” Eddie asked, and Richie blanked. He couldn’t think about much with Eddie’s hand rubbing his thigh like that, with the way he felt himself starting to get hard. He knew Eddie knew very well what he was doing to him, he knew it was intentional. _How much of what Eddie had ever done had been intentional?_

“Uhh… what?” Richie’s voice crackled and popped, and Eddie laughed softly. Cutely, like he was acting as if he wasn’t a few inches away from cupping Richie’s dick.

“The movie, four-eyes. Did you like it? I liked it. I liked it a lot, and I’m so _happy_ you took me here tonight.” Eddie’s eyes were fixed on him, staring at him intently, and Richie didn’t know how to tell him that the movie was still technically playing and they had a few minutes left. Eddie knew. Of course, he knew. Those words died in Richie’s throat, well before they had a chance to eventuate into a slurry of stupid.

“Yeah—I mean… Yeah, yeah, it was good enough, I really thought that the villains were— _ah_ ,” Richie began to stumble out a more than awkward reply, but Eddie didn’t seem to care about conversation (despite initiating it) as his hand moved upwards. His warm palm pressed against the swell of Richie’s dick, fingers curling around it as he squeezed. Richie grunted and was unable to stop a small groan from leaving him, and Eddie’s smile only grew.

“I’m so grateful for tonight, Richie. You look so _handsome_ , too.” Eddie pulled his hand away, and Richie stayed put as he shifted his small body so he was straddling his lap, his arms wrapping around his neck. Richie’s breathing was shot as all he could do was look up at Eddie. How could one person make him so goddamn happy and so goddamn sad all at once? “I’m so, _so_ grateful.” Eddie leaned forward, his lips ghosting over Richie’s. His breaths were hot, and Richie couldn’t take it – so he leaned forward, pressing their lips together. He knew he was being greedy as he kissed Eddie like he was _starved_ for it, but Eddie didn’t seem to mind. He kissed Richie back with equally as much enthusiasm, opening his mouth so Richie could lick into it. Eddie’s body was a heavy comfort on top of his, and he could feel his hammering heartbeat, and Richie didn’t think for a second about the possibility of someone catching them with a glance through the window. That this was far more condemning than anything else they had done that night. All he cared about was wanting more, wanting Eddie, _needing_ Eddie more than he needed to live.

Eddie’s hands moved up into Richie’s hair, tangling and ruining all the previous styling as he pulled himself closer, panting into Richie’s mouth. He swallowed it all; his saliva, his breaths, the small noises he made. He wished he could transport the two of them back into their bedrooms so he could push Eddie’s pants down, so they could fuck their dicks into Richie’s hand. He wasn’t sure what their compromise would be; maybe the disabled toilets, but even that seemed like a risk neither of them were game enough to take. But then again – it was sounding more of a better idea by the minute. Richie couldn’t help himself, his hands moving up Eddie’s legs, over his hips. His hands scrambled at his sweater and shirt so he could finally _touch him_. He was burning for it, burning for the skin-to-skin contact. His hands moved up Eddie’s sides, one anchoring at the slight curve of his waist and the other moving up so he could circle a thumb over Eddie’s nipple like he knew he loved. Eddie gasped and keened, arching into Richie and yanking at his hair, pulling away from the heated kiss. Richie’s eyes opened and he looked at Eddie, at his red cheeks and his eyebrows and his closed eyes and his swollen lips. Richie leaned forward, licking along Eddie’s jaw along to his earlobe. He wanted to leave hickeys all over him like the couples at school did. He wanted to stake his claim, wanted everyone to know that pretty-boy Eddie was his.

“Richie,” Eddie’s voice was tight and airy, his eyes opening just a little. His pupils were dilated enough for Richie to pick up with ease despite the dim lighting, “Can I ask you… Can I ask you something?”

“’Course, Eds. Always,” Richie murmured, deciding to busy himself by burying his face against Eddie’s slender neck, teeth scraping against the pale, blemish-less skin. He played with Eddie’s nipples, feeling the way Eddie would sharply intake breath if he did certain ministrations. He wanted to push his shirt up and lick and suck at them; maybe he would if he felt brave enough.

“I… _fuck_ , I… I’m really… _really grateful_ for tonight Rich. Like… _really_ grateful. And I wanna… I wanna thank you, for…” Eddie began, and Richie could tell that it was an effort for him to speak let alone string together a coherent sentence. His tongue dipped into the valley of Eddie’s collarbone. He wanted to lap up the sweat there.

“You don’t gotta thank me, Eds. I mean, you can like… I dunno, buy me a Cola or pizza sometime… or something,” Richie mumbled into his skin, and Eddie let out a small noise. It sounded almost like a whine, his nails digging into his scalp and making Richie’s dick twitch something fierce.

“No, _no_ , that’s not what I meant. I mean… _ah_ , Richie, would you… do you… do you wanna… you know, like… do you wanna _fuck_ me?”

Richie’s whole body was hit with an infernal tidal wave. His brain felt like it short-circuited before exploding entirely, and he choked on his own spit as he forgot how to breathe entirely. His body felt like it was going to go into shock as those words sunk into his brain.

Holy shit. Holy shit.

 _Holy shit_.

“What did you… what?” Richie choked out, pulling away from Eddie as much as he could so he could see his face. He waited to see him laugh, to crack up and tell him he was joking. That the _look on his face_ was hilarious, that he can’t _believe_ he fell for it. But there wasn’t any of that. Instead, Eddie looked back at him. His eyes were wide, like an animal caught in the headlights. He looked almost scared of Richie’s reply, almost as if his words had caught himself off guard as well.

“I said,” Eddie said, a little softly and a lot more uncertain than he had initially, “I said, do you wanna fuck me?”

“Are you being… are you being serious?” Richie swallowed, and Eddie’s eyes searched over his face for a long minute, his hands still intensely gripping onto his curls like he could rip out whole handfuls if anything went awry. Safety. He nodded. A small nod, a slight nod, and his eyes dropped and looked away from Richie. Richie watched as a flush of humiliation built up into Eddie’s features – his cheeks, the tips of his ears, his neck.

“I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry, it was… It was a stupid suggestion, it was a mistake. Please forget I said anything. I don’t wanna push it, or ruin anything we have, or like… you know, make you uncomfortable—”

Richie’s whole body and mind blanked, and yet they screamed a response with such ferocity that he felt as if he could fall back into the universe and into forever. Like his dreams when he fell and kept falling. There wasn’t time for overthinking or doubt or crippling fear. In that moment, he felt eerie clarity. Clarity before he hit the water and broke every single one of his bones, but clarity nonetheless.

“Yeah,” Richie finally responded, albeit with much delay. When he did, the rest followed abruptly and all at once. “Yeah, if you’re… if you’re serious. Do you… do you want to? You don’t have to. I don’t want you to feel like you have to ‘cause we went to see a Batman movie or whatever.”

Eddie’s cascade of apologies stopped. His eyes widened just a little, and his lips parted, but he didn’t reply straight away. Instead, his grip lightened a little, and his mouth turned up into a smile. A shy one, demure and innocent and _shit_ , _was this really happenin_ g?

“I don’t feel like I have to. I want to.” Eddie’s tongue darted out to moisten his lips before he pulled the bottom one between his teeth. He was grinning, and Richie wasn’t sure he could wait for the entire drive even though he had no choice. He felt as if he were dreaming. Maybe he _had_ fallen asleep during Batman Returns Maybe this was just another one of his countless dreams he had been haunted by since what felt like the start of time. He had _known_ Eddie even before he had first met him, and he would hold onto him forever. He was part of him now. What had begun as a desire to just be understood and seen and loved at arms-length had spiralled into this. If they did this, if they crossed that final threshold, Richie felt as if they would be entangled within one another’s lives forever. Even if they would end up on opposite sides of the world, he knew – and there was no denying it – that this was a moment that would be pivotal for them both. A secret they would both have to hold, have lay on top of them until it crushed their protective ribcages and pierced every one of their organs.

He knew that this had gone too far. He knew that he should say no because he knew that Eddie would regret it. That he would regret it. But in all truth, this had hurtled out of control the moment Richie agreed to that kiss in the woods. That had signed and stamped the promise that this thing was going to crash and burn. It was weird, that childhood love was so often celebrated when it was between a man and a woman. Between people like Beverly and Ben, their childhood love would be celebrated and revered. It symbolised _defying all odds_ , but what odds did they even have to defy? Richie and Eddie’s childhood-friendship-turned- _whatever-this-was_ would be viewed as perverted and abhorrent and delusional, yet they would be the ones who would really _defy all odds_.

 _He needed to say no._ He needed to have the strength to put a stop to this so they wouldn’t do anything they would regret. He needed to tell Eddie that this was a bad idea and that they’d both get hurt, and that he was sure Eddie would figure himself out sometime. He needed to tell Eddie that he was the reason he thought he was gay, that he had poisoned the well. He needed to tell Eddie so much. Years and years and years worth. He didn’t know when the lies had become so heavy, had begun to outnumber the times he had been truthful. But how could he tell Eddie any of that? How could he tell Eddie, really tell him, when he was so scared to admit those same things to himself?

“We should head back,” Richie had never been strong. Richie had resigned to living his life in the closet. He hadn’t been strong enough to stop himself from developing filthy habits. He hadn’t been strong enough to kill himself when he had the chances. He hadn’t been strong enough to push Eddie away before all of this unfolded and blossomed into oncoming calamity. He knew it was heading towards him – he could see it, like a deer staring straight into the brilliant white headlights. He didn’t want to lose Eddie, or hurt him, yet he knew it was inevitable. Like death, the end of the world, and the passage of time, Richie knew there would come a time when this all would catch up to him and Eddie would be gone.

But that hadn’t happened yet. And he had always been one to push it way too far. He had always been so fucking selfish.

As the movie was ending, Eddie excitedly fell back into his seat and buckled his seatbelt, and Richie swallowed down all of what was clawing up the walls of his oesophagus. With shaky hands, he started the engine, pulled away, and began to drive through the drive-in cinema towards the main road. The movie still played through the speakers, albeit a little crackly and static-y as the road back to Derry came into view.

“ _Think he’ll ever forgive us?”_

Richie’s hand reached out towards the dial. What was he doing? What were they doing? He didn’t know anymore. He used to think he did, he used to think he knew very well; but he had realised he hadn’t known a single thing, all along.

“ _Probably not, but—”_

The dial was turned, and a slightly out-of-signal radio station played a song Richie vaguely recognised.

*

Richie had always had a problem with having an overactive imagination. When he had been younger, he had created elaborate universes filled with notable characters; each with their own unique backstory. He could spend the days playing intensely vivid games of pretend – he seemed to always be the one in the group who got carried away in it all, the one whom felt as if it was all just a little way off from being _real_. The only other kid he had ever met that matched Richie’s intenseness when it came to playing pretend was a certain Eddie Kaspbrak. Their games were always… _something else_. They lasted for days, sometimes weeks. Eddie was amazing at storylines and contextual information, while Richie’s talents laid in world building. Together, they created intricate stories that they would sink into for hours. Richie would get so involve in it all that he would end up feeling dazed once he sat at his family’s dinner table. Fighting with Jennifer and hearing about his parents’ days felt painfully mundane after Richie had spent hours with Eddie hunting _Quarry trolls_ , or trying to find dinosaur bones, or taking on invisible monsters that lived along the railway tracks, or valiantly defending Derry from an attack from a hoard of enemy dragons utilising the dragons they had bred and raised and trained.

As Richie grew older, he would find himself imagining different scenarios in his head, try and figure out all the different possibilities that could stem from one action. Like a choose-your-own-adventure book, except every outcome was usually less than desirable and would end in death. When he was feeling particularly bad, he would oftentimes envision much more morbid things, like death or hurting. He had lost count, however, of how many times he would let his head run away with the very _idea_ of Eddie Kaspbrak. Richie had thought of a million different choices, lifetimes, realities featuring Eddie. Eddie was his favourite _day-and-night-dream_. Sometimes it would be something cute and sweet, sometimes it would be heart-achingly romantic. And at around the age at which Richie started to masturbate with more regularity, his thoughts began to have different… _undertones_. It took a while before Richie _let_ himself think about Eddie in overtly sexual ways; at first, he would jerk off to random things about Eddie that made him feel that familiar swooping-dropping feeling in his gut and get him all hot under the collar. It was around the same time Richie started watching porn regularly that he would start to jerk off to thoughts about _actual_ sexual acts with Eddie. He would still feel filthy and guilty about it after the fact and would never admit to somebody (or really himself, either) that he had done such a thing. But sure, he had thought about having sex with Eddie. But he never figured it would actually… _happen_ , no matter how much he wanted it. 

As he drove down the unfamiliar, empty highway with Eddie singing softly along to a staticky version of _Karma Chameleon,_ everything felt surreal. Displaced, like he was outside of himself. It felt like he was driving towards something. An affirmation, an ending, a resting place. It felt as if he was simultaneously walking towards the gallows _and_ his final liberation. He half expected Eddie to change his mind once they got back to Derry and the novelty and wistfulness of anonymity wore off. Once they were back to being Richie and Eddie, once they were back to playing the roles they had long become desensitised to. Despite Eddie’s occasional singing along to the songs he was familiar with on the radio, Richie felt restless. He kept looking into the rear-view mirror, as if expecting to see something. Someone following them. A monster that was made up of all the worst parts of him. He kept readjusting his grip on the steering-wheel; _nothing felt right_. His whole body just felt pathetically awkward.

“Have you ever had a seizure?” Richie broke their conversational standstill. Eddie looked up towards him, popping some candy into his mouth and beginning to chew.

“Huh?”

“Seizures. You mentioned seizures when we were walking to the snack bar. Have you ever had one?” Richie asked, looking back towards the road. He readjusted his grip again. Eddie hummed, grabbing a handful of candy. He squeezed one of the gummies between his fingers, disfiguring it on purpose before eating it.

“Yeah. I used to have them when I lived back in Boston sometimes, before I got medication for it. I don’t have them much anymore. At all really, since I moved to Derry. Maybe it was something in the water. Too much fluoride or something.” Eddie squished another candy and shrugged, Richie frowning unintentionally. Eddie had never mentioned seizures before, nor anything like fluoride. The hot anticipation he had felt in the drive-in cinema had started to cool, feeling like a widespread chilly sweat across his entire body. “Why do you ask?”

“Just curious.” Richie replied, and Eddie nodded. He scrutinised the candy between his fingers, before offering one to Richie. He took it and ate it, before Eddie thought of something else to say.

“Hey, I just remembered something,” Eddie spoke looked up at Richie again, grabbing his soda from the drink holder and taking a long drink from it before he continued his thought. “You know that girl you dated? Marie?”

“Yeah, I know her,” Richie replied, as he looked towards Eddie for a split second before turning back to the road.

“Beverly told me that she has gay uncles. Like, her uncle is in a long-term relationship with another man.” Eddie leaned back in the seat, watching Richie from where he sat. He fiddled with the cap of his soda between his fingers, making a soft clicking noise with his nail and the plastic, and Richie could feel his stare. His stomach felt like he had swallowed a whole handful of rocks and they were tumbling around inside of him like a washing machine on spin cycle. He hadn’t thought about Marie all that much recently. He hadn’t spoken to her since she had told him not to, or even looked in her direction. He was almost considering that maybe Eddie was saying this to fuck with him, to rile him up and see his reaction. Just in case, he tried to keep his composure and his eyes concentrated ahead of him.

“She… told you that?” He echoed, and Eddie nodded before he hummed in affirmation. He pulled a leg up to his chest, and Richie shifted in the uncomfortable seat of the Cutlass. There were a few beats of silence, Richie finding himself jiggling the foot that wasn’t on the pedal. Up and down rapidly, like he had done for as long as he could remember. He swallowed. It was his turn to speak, he knew Eddie was expecting him to continue. But he was lost for any words. “Oh. She didn’t… she didn’t tell me that.” He concluded, and Eddie hummed again. He turned to look out the window, smoothing his hands over his trousers a few times despite the fact they were neither wrinkled nor dirty.

“Yeah, I figured.” Eddie thought aloud, resting his head against the windowpane. Richie looked over; the dim and exaggerated lighting only accentuated the valleys and peaks of Eddie’s complexion. His cheeks looked gaunt, almost hollow. They passed under an overpass, and Richie looked away. “I’m not surprised that she didn’t tell you about it. Don’t tell anyone else, okay?” Richie felt a weird sting from those words; it felt like when his sister had flicked him hard when they were kids, catching his arm and bruising him.

“What do you mean by that? Why are you not surprised? She was my girlfriend; she should have told me.” Richie said, and he knew he was coming off as being a little defensive, but he couldn’t help it. Eddie’s words had stung, intentional or not. Eddie sighed and rolled his eyes, leaning forward to put his bottle back into the drink holder.

“Don’t worry about it, Richie. She didn’t have to tell you shit. Don’t act like you weren’t keeping secrets either. You really think she would tell you about something like that when you act like being called _faggot_ is the world’s worst insult?” Eddie was looking at him, hard, almost challenging him to a game Richie had never learned the rules of. It wasn’t fair, the game was never fair, and he never wanted to play.

“What, you like being called faggot? Is it _that_ unusual to not want to get insulted? I don’t understand what you’re trying to get at, _Kaspbrak_.” Richie looked back at Eddie. His words were sharp, and his molars clenched, and his jaw felt like stone. And Eddie met his eyes for that moment, and he was unwavering and never scared of him. He would stare right back, and he would really _look_. Really, really look, and it would be Richie who would end up breaking. Cracking down the middle; hairline fractures that promised to shatter him into a million tiny pieces in the very near future.

“Stop at the next gas station. I gotta take a piss.” Eddie said, and Richie didn’t ask any more questions after that. Not because he didn’t want to, or that he didn’t have any. But he wasn’t sure he wanted to know any of the answers, and it was just that little bit easier to live with himself if he didn’t.

*

The second they were back in Derry, all of Richie’s senses were heightened. As he drove down deserted streets, he half expected sirens and alarms to sound at their return. He expected to see a red car in Ms. S’ driveway, or his dad’s new car in his own. He expected a town to be waiting at his doorstep with torches and pitchforks and crucifixes. Instead, they were met with nothing. They didn’t pass a single car or person as the vehicle crawled through endless residential mazes, finally coming to a crawling, tired stop in the front yard of the Tozier residence. In the light of the half-moon, the houses seemed to loom forward a few inches. Intimidating and silent witnesses. There were no pitchforks or torches, no horror-movie evangelicals waiting to skin them alive for their bodily sins. No family arriving home unexpectedly early. They sat in the driveway, the engine settling from the longest drive it had made in far too long. Richie didn’t move. Not a single muscle. He barely let himself breathe. His whole body felt like he was a ragdoll or a scarecrow; heavy and limp and full of _random shit_.

At the drive-in, when Eddie’s body had been heavy on his and he could taste sweets on his tongue, this had sounded like the best idea and proposition he had ever had. Now, they were sitting in anticipating silence; thick with awkwardness, and Richie was beginning to regret going anywhere tonight in the first place.

Eddie moved a little, unbuckling his seatbelt, and Richie did the same before continuing his impersonation of a marble statue.

“Are we still doing this?” Eddie spoke up, and Richie was staring so hard ahead at the garage door that his eyes were burning. Were they still doing this? Were they doing anything at all?

This was a bad idea. This was a bad idea. This was a horrible, horrible, bad, horrible idea. The worst idea either of them had ever, ever, had. He just needed to say it. He just needed to say it. Eddie would regret it, he would hate Richie forever, because after they did this he would _realise_ that Richie was disgusting and that he had tricked Eddie into all of this, and that he wasn’t gay, he was just—

“Do you still want to?” Richie’s words felt awkwardly punctuated, like he was typing them out on a typewriter. Like he was sitting in a big, empty room, typing away like a madman. A manifesto slowly driving him insane. Eddie missed a beat and then half a beat, and it wasn’t a long enough pause for him to be uncertain.

“Yeah, I still want to. Do you?” Eddie was sure. Richie knew that. And despite Richie’s brain going a million miles an hour, despite how much he wanted to be uncertain, he knew that he wanted this too. He had for a long time. He wanted it so much it ached in his bones.

On one hand, he knew this was a bad idea and that he should call it off now before it went too far and it was unfixable.

On another, he knew that this might be the only chance he would ever get to do this. And he knew that if he didn’t do this, he would die with that strongly held regret.

_He was so, so tired of being so fucking scared all the time. What was he even scared of anymore?_

“Yeah. I want to.” Richie hated himself so much. He hated himself so much he could barely deal with it. He felt like it was consuming him, that one day it would be all that he was. If that day hadn’t come already. He wanted to dig his nails deep into his skin until he saw blood, to drive burning matches into his arms, to make his body uglier so that it would reflect how ugly he was inside.

Eddie was so beautiful it hurt sometimes. And now, it hurt so much he was sure he could die from it.

“Okay,” Eddie breathed, and he wiped his hands on his trousers again. “Okay.” He repeated, and Richie let go of the steering wheel. He pulled his keys from the ignition, took a breath, and opened the car door. He nearly tripped as he made his way to the front door in record time, hoping that the darkness of his unoccupied house would cover him from any prying eyes. Eddie followed behind him, and Richie fumbled with the keys with shaking hands before he finally could let the two of them inside. The door closed behind them, and they both stood for a second and waited in silence. Frozen, like rabbits, listening for any signs of life. For any clue that they had been caught, that they had been caught in a hunter’s trap only to be skinned and tanned and devoured.

Richie chanced a look at Eddie. His eyes were wide, his pupils blown with adrenaline. He blinked. Richie’s head filtered through hundreds of tiny memories throughout the years. Snippets of the thousands of millisecond moments that had accumulated into his undying yearning for Eddie, his adoration and love for him. The countless times he had thought he truly had never seen something more beautiful than the brunette boy. Eddie smiled at him, steady but timid with what Richie knew were nerves.

“Richie,” He spoke softly, like he was scared someone was home and would overhear the two of them. Richie wondered if there were ghosts in the walls, and if they would ever tell. “You know how you always have talked about all the girls you’ve fucked and stuff, ever since we were like ten? Those were lies, right?”

Richie didn’t know how to tell Eddie that most of everything was lies. That Richie, himself, was one _big fucking lie_.

“What do you think?” Richie whispered in reply, and Eddie shrugged and ducked his head down a little. “Yeah. I lied. Though, everything I said about your mom is true. I hope you don’t mind, Eds, we have hot, steamy sex all the time—”

“ _Stop_!” Eddie laughed; and it wasn’t because he was being remotely funny at the time, but because it had snapped the tension a little. Like a rubber band. Eddie’s shoulders dropped, and Richie swallowed so hard it hurt. “Are you sure you want to do this, Richie?”

“God, Eddie, you’re making it sound like I’m about to murder someone or something.” Richie blurted in anxious exasperation, to which Eddie gently shoved him in the side. He walked past Richie and to the stairs, stepping up on the first one. “Yes, I said I fucking want to do this.”

“I mean, you can murder my ass with—” Eddie began, and Richie choked out an ungodly noise.

“ _STOP_ , stop with that analogy right there _holy shit_ , Eds.” Richie nearly yelled out, and Eddie laughed out loud, stepping up onto the second step. He leaned against the railing a little, looking down at Richie who felt rooted to the spot. He wasn’t really here. When had he ever been really here at all? He was smiling, and it hurt his face, and he loved Eddie and he wasn’t sure how things had gotten to be like this. He wished Eddie was a girl and that he loved him as a man who loved a woman, and that they could get married and have children and live a quiet life. He wanted, with every fibre of his being, to be unremarkable but in the best sort of way. Normalcy sounded like everything he had ever wanted that he would never be able to get.

“You’re thinking again, Richie,” Eddie said, and he was, so Richie couldn’t think of a smart retort with all the circumstances considered, “I told you, stop thinking too much. Would it help if I told you that I’ve been practicing?”

“What? What the fuck are you talking about?” Richie snapped back, and Eddie’s smile became shy and his face was pink even in the dim lighting. They hadn’t ever bothered to switch on the light, so they were sitting ducks for any awaiting murderers lurking the halls. Goddammit, Richie had made a promise to himself that he would never let himself be in this situation.

“I’ve been _practicing_. In case you said you wanted to. You _know_.” Eddie shrugged, and he shifted in place, and Richie felt as if all the air had been kicked out of him by one big asshole of a foot. Oh. Oh.

 _Oh_.

Eddie grinned, and in the split-second Richie was registering the implications of what he had said to him, and began trying to recover from said implications, Eddie ran up the rest of the stairs by twos. And Richie stumbled over his shoes before he kicked them off and followed right up after him, his heart flying and his body lighter than air.

He expected Eddie to have disappeared once he had left Richie’s line of sight; that this had just been another elaborate fantasy or excruciatingly realistic fever dream. But as he reached the landing, and walked down the hall to his room, Eddie was there. He had switched on Richie’s old yellow lava lamp and desk light, casting a warm light throughout his bedroom. He cursed himself for not changing his sheets to something a little better than his old Jurassic Park bedsheets, but at least he had made his bed earlier in the day. Eddie was standing next to his bed, and he looked like he belonged there. They usually did this sort of thing at Eddie’s place as it was a lot more private, but they had messed around there too on a few occasions.

It felt like it had been not too long ago when they had spent time in his room playing with action figures and trading cards, or drawing up imaginary superheroes, or reading comics; and now they stood in the same place, hurtling towards adulthood, and nothing was the same. Nothing was going to be the same after this, ever again.

But as Eddie licked his lips with nervous energy, and looked at Richie, and said; “I guess this is it, huh?”

He knew that he would be the only one he would ever love in this way. It was a once in a lifetime thing, to love someone as deeply as he loved Eddie; he didn’t have the capacity to do it again, and he knew it.

He had always known he was destined to be a miserable piece of shit, so what was he waiting for? Eddie would grow to resent him anyway. Everybody always would.

So he walked forward, until he was standing as close as he could to Eddie. He was taller than him, like he always had been. Richie cupped his face in his hand, his thumb pressing into the softness of his cheek, and Eddie let out a soft breath from between his petal pink lips.

“Yeah. Guess it is.” Richie took a breath.

He had kissed Eddie now more times than he could count; and yet he felt as if they were back standing between the towering trees. Speaking words that meant nothing, their only purpose to insulate the silences that existed as propositions. If Richie had said no then, they wouldn’t be here now. If he would have said no, then, Eddie wouldn’t have been spoiled and Richie was sure he wouldn’t have made it this far. In some ways, his pining and yearning for Eddie had been a double-edged sword. It kept him alive while it was buried inside of him; and if removed, he would die. As a kid, despite always being smaller and shorter than Richie, Eddie always seemed to be ahead of him. He always seemed to be turning back and shouting, over his shoulder with enthusiasm only Eddie seemed to possess, for him to _‘hurry the fuck up, Richie!’_. Eddie was always ahead, always the one taking chances. He was the one to jump into the quarry when it was too cold, he was the one to take on the Bowers gang without hesitation, he was the one to talk back and speak up, he was the one who always came to his friends’ aid and patched up wounds no matter how much they bled, he was the one who seemed to overcome all of his fears throughout the years. It was about time Richie was brave enough to do something about at least one of his own.

Maybe it was a sudden burst of courage and bravery brought on by what Richie hoped to be personal development, or maybe it was because he was sporting a semi and Eddie’s body was flush against his and he was convinced he was more hormone than guy at this point – but Richie leaned down and pulled Eddie into a kiss. It was instantly harsh and heated and fast; unlike some of the lazy kisses they had shared that built up in intensity, this one was intense from the get go. Eddie grabbed onto the front of Richie’s shirt, leaning up just a little on his tip-toes as their mouths moved together. It was open mouthed and obscene and Eddie’s mouth moved like it had purpose. He tasted sweet from all the candy and soda, but also like _himself_ , and he was licking into Richie’s mouth without a hint of reservation as he pulled him in closer. Richie’s hands were on his hips, and he tried his best to return Eddie’s advances with his own. He could still feel the hesitance, the reservations he felt in the back of his mind. The drive back had nearly made him change his mind entirely about this whole idea, but he was quickly coming around. Especially as Eddie planted one hand on his chest, the other snaking around the back of his neck.

Richie’s brain felt as if it was slowly disengaging, disconnecting, and going offline as years upon years of desire started to pump through his veins. With cautious hands, he gently pushed up the hem of Eddie’s sweater and shirt, his fingers brushing over the warm bare skin of his lower back. Eddie shuddered and hummed, his fingers curling into the messy baby-hairs at the nape of his neck. He had seen Eddie naked so many times now; he had memorised his body down to every detail he could. Counted the freckles on his shoulders, the mole on his right thigh right below his butt-cheek. He knew what his body looked like bathed in the morning and afternoon sun, in the moonlit glow of night. And yet now, this was an entirely new territory. He _knew_ how to have sex. He _knew_ how it worked; but simultaneously, he felt clueless and completely out of his depth.

Eddie pulled away, just a little, his nose against Richie’s. Their cacophony of breathing filling the room. Richie had to swallow a bunch of saliva, and he wasn’t sure if it was even his, or what percentage of it was.

“Relax, Richie. I can feel you’re tense.” Eddie’s fingers pressed into the base of his scalp, and it sent tingles along his head and down his spine. Richie licked his lips, his tongue brushing over Eddie’s incidentally.

“Of course I’m fucking tense, Eds. I’m a virgin, this is kinda a big deal for me, you know?” Richie didn’t know why he was loudly whispering, and Eddie’s hand on his chest moved towards the button of his fancy, expensive shirt. He fiddled the first two open, exposing the top of Richie’s chest. He had started to grow some chest hair that he was now acutely aware of and pretty embarrassed about, but Eddie didn’t seem to notice nor mind as his fingers ghosted over his clavicles.

“Me too. Just remember it’s me, Rich. You’ve known me forever. It’s just like what we do together all the time now, but with extra steps. It’ll be good, I promise. It’s just me,” Eddie was trying to be reassuring, but Richie felt as if those words were the exact opposite.

 _That’s the problem, Eddie._ He wanted to say. _It’s you. It’s you, that’s the problem. It’s always been you. It’ll always be you._

“We both want this. There’s nothing wrong with doing this, Richie.” Eddie’s words sounded as if they were coming through the end of a tunnel for some reason. Richie’s vision was slightly blurred even with his thick rimmed glasses on as Eddie pulled away to look up at him. He was frowning, just a little, his bottom lip all pouty and cute as he put two hands on either side of Richie’s face.

“Hey,” he said, softly. “We both want this. You want to do this, right?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I want to.” Richie’s response sounded lightyears away from his eardrums.

“And I want to do this too. I really do, Richie. Trust me on this, okay? Do you trust me?” Eddie’s hands moved down to Richie’s shoulders and pressed into the overly tense muscle there that was giving him a backache.

He trusted Eddie more than he trusted anyone else, including himself. He would trust Eddie with his life, and in many ways he had. Eddie’s eyes burned holes into his, his touch searing and unyielding. Richie felt a smile crawl onto his lips, and the hand on his hip slipped up a little further up his shirt so it was in the centre of his lower back. Eddie was warm like a furnace, and it seemed to spread throughout Richie and all the way into his core. It felt as if his body was filled with coal, and Eddie had finally set him alight after all these years.

“You’re acting as if you’re about to be the one who puts it in _me,_ not the other way around.” He teased, and Eddie’s grin echoed his own as he leaned into Richie’s touch. Eddie stepped backwards, pulling Richie along with his shirt, his thigh slotting between Richie’s thighs and pressing up into his developing erection.

“Maybe next time, hm? We can mix it up a little.” Eddie cooed, and Richie couldn’t help the rush of air that left him at the prospect that there would even be a next time at all, let alone a goddamn first time. But this was that. This was what that was – a _first time_. He hadn’t even considered getting fucked before, but if it was _Eddie_ it didn’t sound all that bad. He felt his cheeks heat up and Eddie laughed. “Sit on the bed,” he instructed, and Richie did as he was directed. He sat up against his headboard, and Eddie sat on his lap. He pushed Richie up against the headboard as their lips crashed together once more in another mind-numbing kiss. Having Eddie seated on his lap like that unlocked something inside of Richie; something primitive as his hands pushed up into his shirt. The hesitation he had been battling had begun to diffuse into nothing as his hands roamed over Eddie’s furnace of a body. Eddie seemed to like it when he touched him, as he leaned into the touches and let out soft, happy gasps. Richie pushed Eddie’s clothes up with one hand, the other moving downwards to grab a handful of his ass through those fancy pants he wore that night that made his figure look killer. The other hand ghosted up Eddie’s torso and over his nipples again, and Eddie _keened_. The moan that tumbled from his lips made Richie’s cock instantly rock hard and at attention, and he was sure Eddie could feel it against his clothed ass; especially judging by the way he tilted his hips downwards and pressed himself against Richie harder.

“Fuck, Richie—I’ve been… I’ve been wanting to do this for so long,” Eddie exhaled, his voice high and airy and light. “I couldn’t stop… I couldn’t stop thinking about it.” He admitted, and Richie puffed out a hot breath against Eddie’s jaw as he pressed his lips to it.

“About what?” Richie enquired, his brain dumb and slow with arousal. Eddie’s cheeks were scorching again his, and Eddie grabbed Richie’s hand and yanked it down towards the bottom of his sweater. Richie took the hint, pulling it up over Eddie’s head and discarding it on the floor beside the two of them. Eddie didn’t even complain – he just smiled at him, sweet as ever.

“About _sex_ ,” Eddie rolled his eyes and laughed, a high trill that sounded goddamn angelic as he started to work at the buttons on Richie’s shirt some more. Richie, in the meantime, had a serious case of dry-mouth. He hadn’t ever considered Eddie would think about sex. Obviously he did, considering they hooked up quite often – but the thought that Eddie would think about sex, just _sex_ … maybe lying on his bed and touching himself, God, that set Richie’s soul on fire and he was thankful he didn’t come in his nice pants right there. “I’ve been wanting this for so _long_ … I know it’s… I know it’s perverted, and gross, but I just… I can’t help myself, I can’t help it—” Richie’s shirt fell open, and Eddie’s hands ran over his chest and down his biceps, squeezing them, his eyes fixated on Richie’s body. He had no idea what Eddie saw, but apparently it was something he liked, as he didn’t look away in disgust.

“Me too,” Richie admitted, his voice crackling and popping. He wanted to see Eddie’s body too – that desire hit him like a freight train, and he could barely contain himself as his clumsy hand grabbed at Eddie’s shirt. He fumbled with the buttons, no where near as elegant as Eddie had been. If it had been a horrible, cheap shirt, he would have just ripped it clean off him. “Me too, Eds. For so long.” Richie wasn’t even paying attention to what he was saying anymore, he was just _saying it._ All he could think about was getting Eddie’s shirt off and maybe his pants and touching him _all over_. Eddie seemed to want that too, considering he sounded like he was panting as he watched Richie’s hands work at his buttons. He was making these small movements like he was constantly shifting in his seat; Richie knew now, after their various hook up sessions, that he was grinding down against him. The thought that Eddie wanted him _that bad_ , that he had to satiate himself by pushing his ass down onto Richie’s clothed boner made the blood roar in Richie’s ears. He wanted to devour Eddie, he wanted to do everything in the world with him in that moment. He wanted to make him feel better than anyone ever had, and anyone ever would. 

As his shirt finally fell open, Richie roughly yanked it off of Eddie’s arms. He didn’t care where it ended up; all he cared about in that moment was that Eddie was half naked for him, and his blush was flushing down his chest and over his shoulders.

“God, you’re fucking beautiful, Eddie. You’re so fucking beautiful, I don’t know how.” Richie’s hands roamed over Eddie’s body. His freckles were mapped out in Richie’s brain like constellations, his slightly coarse fingertips touching and touching and touching. He couldn’t help himself, one hand clasping around the back of Eddie’s neck as he ducked his head down enough to be able to mouth at his nipples and chest like he had been wanting to do for _ages_ now. Eddie moaned, grabbing Richie’s shoulders and sinking his nails into his skin. Richie swirled his tongue, flicking it over the little sensitive bud.

“Oh god, that feels— _fuck_ , Rich,” Eddie whined, his body pressing closer against Richie’s, his thighs pressing into him. “ _A-ah_ , Richie, I— _mmh._ We need to hurry up or I’m gonna come before we— we _do it_ ,” Eddie warned shakily, and Richie pulled away, wiping his mouth with his hand. Eddie had a point. If they got too into things now, they wouldn’t get to the main event. Then this was really all for nothing, and Richie figured it would be super embarrassing if he blew his load before even getting to fuck like initially planned.

“Okay,” Richie tried to think. What was the next step? Shit, he couldn’t think. All he could think about was his dick throbbing in his pants. Pants. _Pants_. He reached for Eddie’s pants, unbuttoning the button and unzipping them for him. Eddie pulled them down before he moved a little off from Richie so he would be able to kick them off. As he was doing that, Richie reached for his own pants.

“No— I wanna do it,” Eddie said hastily, nearly falling onto the bed as he swatted Richie’s hands away. Richie wanted to protest, but it died in his throat as Eddie’s dainty hands easily popped the button of his pants and coaxed them down. He lifted his hips to make it easier. He didn’t even feel cold as he sat there in his briefs, Eddie wearing some cute red underwear and white socks. He swallowed as Eddie sat opposite Richie on his knees. He looked like he had ran a sort of marathon, a sweat sheen on his forehead and his hair matted and curly. His eyes were so dark as he blinked at Richie, his hands on his knobbly kneecaps. Richie could see his dick straining in his underwear, could see the little wet patch where he knew the head was. He licked his chafed lips out of habit, trying to keep his eyes on Eddie’s face so he didn’t accidentally make it weird.

“How are we doing this?” Eddie asked, and Richie took a few moments to understand the meaning of those words and remember that he spoke English. His tongue felt as if it had decided to resign and become a piece of meat instead as he choked on the start of a sentence.

“You lie down, I guess…?” Richie suggested, though he was just as clueless as his counterpart. Eddie nodded, lying down on the bed. Richie moved from where he had been sitting, looking over Eddie who seemed as if he was waiting for further instruction. _Oh fuck._ “I mean, I gotta prep you first so… so, we gotta do that, huh? Have you uh… have you ever been… you know?” Richie asked as he bent over to open his drawer. He found the lube he had hidden away, looking over to Eddie who had propped himself up on his elbows.

“Fingered?” Eddie answered, waiting for Richie to blush and avoid eye contact before he continued, “yeah. I’ve done it a few times.” He settled back down, and Richie tried not to think about that because if he did he would definitely bust a nut right there. Eddie parted his legs, bending one up at the knee. “Have you done it before?”

“Um… no. No, I haven’t.” Richie muttered, to which Eddie raised his brows in clear surprise.

“Not to Marie? Not even yourself? You should do it. It feels really good if you do it right.” Eddie suggested as Richie shakily opened the bottle of lube and poured some onto his hands. He rubbed it against his fingers to warm it up.

“No to both. Uh…” he paused as he looked at Eddie, who didn’t hesitate for a moment as he pushed his underwear off until it hung around one of his ankles. Richie could barely see; he was so horny. He felt like he was in a fucking dream. He stared at Eddie, at his perfect face and his perfect body. At his hips and his thighs, and his ass and his dick. The way he had his legs positioned made it so Richie could _see his_ … his… his… jesus, that was his hole, right there. Richie had no idea how he was going to fit his dick in it, but hey – there had to be a way.

“Hurry up,” Eddie complained, shifting where he lay. He propped himself up on his elbows again as Richie scooted closer. He concentrated as best as he could manage as he circled one finger around Eddie’s entrance, getting lube onto it. He counted to five, took another breath, and slowly began to push his finger in. It felt… weird. Different. Hot and tight, and he could feel Eddie trying to adjust to the feeling. Eddie was breathing weird; heavy and long and laboured as his eyes were fixed on Richie with an intensity that was almost scary. Richie didn’t stop until it was completely inside. He wiggled his finger a little, and Eddie shuddered, his hands tightly catching onto the sheets.

“Like this?” Richie asked, and Eddie hummed and nodded. He sounded weird, too, like he was super tense. “Does it hurt?”

“No, it feels good,” Eddie reassured, lifting his hips a little more. “Move your finger. Like, thrust it inside me, and add another one when it feels loose enough.” Richie couldn’t argue with that. He literally couldn’t. His brain was completely gone; he just nodded and began to move his finger. Out, and in again, out and in. He crooked it a little when it was inside, feeling around. Eddie just watched, making soft noises sometimes. It was when Richie added a second finger to which Eddie winced a little, and his arms shook. He told Richie to keep going, and Richie listened, pushing his fingers in until the knuckle. He moved his fingers a little, pushing against something inside Eddie. Eddie’s whole body seemed to spasm as he cried out, his hips pushing up as he grabbed Richie’s arm.

“Fuck— yeah, _there_ , Richie. That’s— that’s what feels good, fuck,” Eddie panted, encouraging Richie to pull out his fingers nearly all the way before he pushed them in again. Eddie moaned, nearly choking on it. Richie was happy they were alone, because Eddie was being so loud, and he _loved it._ He kept one hand on Eddie’s hip as he started to fuck Eddie on his fingers. It drove Eddie _wild_ ; his eyes were closed, his noises high pitched and whiny as he tried to meet Richie’s fingers. His dick looked heavy with arousal as it lazily leaked a _lot_ of precum onto Eddie’s stomach. Richie liked this. He wanted to finger Eddie all the time. He was sure he could come just from fingering Eddie and watching how good it made him feel.

“Add— add one more. One more, be quick. I don’t wanna come yet,” Eddie hurried, and Richie wasn’t sure if he could push another finger in that small hole. But he tried, and to his surprise, Eddie took it. He didn’t even seem to notice it. Richie wanted to lick up his precum, but he knew he would end up sucking his dick and that would end this a lot quicker than they both wanted. So he just worked on opening Eddie up on his fingers, feeling him loosen up around them. He tried to not abuse his special spot too much so that he wouldn’t orgasm, and Eddie already looked exhausted as he laid there, one hand idly playing with one of his nipples and the other putting two fingers in his mouth as if he was trying to keep himself quiet. Richie wanted to come all over his pretty face then. He wanted Eddie to swallow his dick like that. He wanted to shove his fingers in Eddie’s mouth. Maybe he would. God, he wanted to.

“I think… I think I’m… I’m ready,” Eddie’s voice sounded wrecked and worn as he spoke up, gazing at Richie with slightly watery eyes. “Do you have condoms?”

“ _Fuck,_ no, no, is that okay? I didn’t think we would…” Richie pulled his fingers out of Eddie. He watched his hole twitch at the loss, watched Eddie shiver and his thighs tense up.

“You don’t have an STD, do you?” Eddie frowned, and Richie rolled his eyes, feeling a mild flair of annoyance at that.

“No. I’m a _virgin_. I only do stuff with you.” He grumbled, and Eddie smiled at him like an angel from heaven. He was Richie’s angel, he was sure of it. “Are you sure?”

“Yes, Richie. Please. I want it. I want you inside of me, is that clear enough for you?” Eddie sighed, and Richie opened his mouth but no noise came out. “Please. Don’t make me beg, Rich, please?”

“Okay, if you… if you’re sure, Eddie.” Richie fumbled with his underwear. He pushed it down until he was able to kick it off to the foot of the bed, and Eddie didn’t seem to have any doubts or worries as he looked at Richie’s dick like it was a fucking ice lolly. “Are you comfortable?”

“Yeah,” Eddie sighed happily, bending both his knees. “I’ll hook my legs over your shoulders, okay?”

“Okay,” Richie agreed, frowning at the cold touch of the lubricant as he slicked it along his dick. He scooted forward until he was right up near Eddie. This was it. This was it. Despite how many times he had fantasised about this, it paled in comparison when presented with the real thing. Doubt began to weasel it’s way into Richie’s brain. What if Eddie hated it? What if Richie wasn’t any good? What if he did it all wrong? What if he hurt Eddie beyond repair? What then?

“Richie,” Eddie whined softly, gazing at him with a pleading gaze. Was he ready? He didn’t think he’d ever be ready. He shifted in place, lining himself up with Eddie. Eddie moved one leg and somehow hooked it over Richie’s shoulder. “Relax, Rich. It’s okay. Okay? I promise it’s okay.”

Eddie had no idea. But in the same way, Richie had no idea either. They were both clueless and stupid and young.

“Tell me if you want to stop or if it hurts.” Richie gripped Eddie’s hip to keep him in place as he slowly, _slowly_ started to push inside. Eddie gasped loudly, grabbing onto Richie’s arm. He was panting again as he watched Richie. He had to stop for a few seconds only partially inside. He readjusted himself; Eddie was tight, and it was _a lot,_ and he wasn’t sure he could deal with that without coming. Eddie dug his heel into Richie’s shoulder blades.

“Keep going,” Eddie encouraged. He sounded winded, and part of Richie wondered if he was going to have an asthma attack. Did he even have his inhaler? Richie pushed inside more, achingly slow until he was all the way in. He stopped. He had to. He was panting; and he knew if he didn’t stop for a second, he would orgasm right there and then. Eddie didn’t complain. He was looking at Richie and panting too, his cheeks a dark red and his lips swollen.

“S’ okay?” Richie asked, and Eddie nodded hastily, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He felt Eddie tighten around him, and Richie grunted. The intensity was almost too much for him to bare; he felt so good he almost felt like he wanted to cry from how good it felt. He moved his hips a little, just a bit to see how it felt. Eddie’s breath caught as he inhaled almost as if he had been sobbing, a sharp _in-in_. “Shit, Eds. _Shit_ , you’re tight,”

“Is that… is that bad?” Eddie’s eyes widened, and Richie shook his head. He readjusted his grip on Eddie’s hips. He didn’t want to leave bruises; or maybe he did.

“No, it feels good,” Richie reassured as best as he could manage, feeling himself move a little backwards from the steep edge of orgasm. “I’m gonna move, okay?”

“Okay, yeah,” Eddie agreed, one hand moving up to grab onto Richie’s wooden headboard. The other circled around the back of Richie’s neck. Richie started to pull out a little before he thrust back inside. Eddie let out a little punched out sound, angling his hips a bit and pushing back against Richie. “Keep going, Rich,” he breathed, pulling Richie’s face downwards into an awkward and badly angled kiss. As he licked into Eddie’s mouth, he thrust again. He started a rhythm, slow and deep. He knew that if he went too fast, he would come inside of Eddie way too fast. But if it was slower, he could draw it out a little longer. It was when they shifted angles just a little, and Richie felt himself get deeper inside of him, did Eddie start to get vocal again. His whole body tensed up and the moan that he made sounded so dirty it made Richie feel embarrassed, his back arching as he gasped and whined in a way he only got when he was feeling _really good_.

“ _Fuck_ , right there, Richie—yeah, _fuck, fuck, right there_ ,” Eddie panted out a string of barely coherent words, his nails dragging down Richie’s back. It hurt, but it hurt _good_ , and Richie couldn’t help the groans and moans he made. He had never felt this good in his entire life; not even when he had the best jerk off sessions did he feel this good. Eddie felt so amazing, and he sounded amazing, and he looked amazing. He couldn’t look away; just seeing the way Eddie reacted to Richie’s movements made him feel like he was almost high off of it. “ _Harder_ , Rich, _faster_ ,” Richie could only nod, gripping onto Eddie’s body for dear life. He felt clumsy with arousal, his movements uncoordinated and their bodies slipping awkwardly from sweat, but Richie started fucking into Eddie harder. He held him so tight he knew there would probably be bruising, but Eddie just got louder and _louder_. His pretty eyes closed as he moaned so pretty for Richie, and he knew that would be forever the best thing he could hear. It was objectively disgusting; they were both panting like animals, and his balls would hit Eddie’s ass and their bodies made this wet slapping noise, and there was precum and lube everywhere. But Eddie looked as if he was in pure bliss as his body attempted to move with Richie’s, as his eyelashes kissed his cheeks and his hair fell like a halo on Richie’s pillow.

He never wanted it to end. But it was going to. And Richie could feel it building up inside of him. Hard and strong and fast and all-consuming. His orgasm felt as if it was coming from his toes and building up into his stomach. Fire and lava and ice all in one. Every movement he made, every thrust into Eddie’s suffocatingly tight heat, every noise and expression that Eddie made, pushed him closer and closer.

“Eds, I’m… I’m getting close, I’m gonna…” Richie warned, his voice strained and exhausted and beat, and Eddie’s eyes opened to look at him. He was sweaty and red like he had been out in the quarry on a really hot day. Richie was never going to be able to look at him the same way after this. He was filled with so much that it felt as if he was going to explode or overflow. He wanted to tell Eddie he loved him, wanted to keep him to himself forever. Wanted to get into the shitty Cutlass and drive and drive and drive and never stop driving, and they could be on the run forever. Lovers, they could make love wherever they wanted to. Richie would sell his soul for it, for a chance at something so perfect and limitless. He would happily live to make Eddie happy, to give him whatever he wanted or needed for as long as he lived.

“Come in me,” Eddie breathed, his legs slipping a little from Richie’s shoulders as he tried to get closer. They were as close as possible, but it wasn’t enough for either of them. “I want you to come in me, Rich.”

“Are you—are you _sure_ , Eds, I— _shit_ ,” Richie’s thrusts were increasingly irregular, his cock and balls throbbing as he was on the absolute edge.

“Please, Rich. Please come in me,” Eddie’s eyes met his, and it was game over. Richie cried out as he buried himself inside Eddie as deep as he could go. The orgasm that hit him was blinding, waves of pleasure crashing into his body. He knew he was coming a whole lot, but he couldn’t stop rutting his hips inside of Eddie, chasing the high that he knew would just be another for him to get hooked on. The very moment Richie finished inside Eddie came too. He whimpered Richie’s name as semen painted his abdomen. If Richie wouldn’t have orgasmed before, he would have after seeing and hearing Eddie come. The sounds he made were so cute and so filthy that Richie made sure to memorise it to the best of his ability. No one in the world was ever going to be better than Eddie. He knew that. He knew Eddie had ruined any prospect of Richie being satisfied with anybody else. He had ruined all of Richie’s potential future relationships because no one would be Eddie. No one would feel as good as Eddie, no one would sound as good as Eddie, no one would look as gorgeous as him.

Usually, whenever Richie and Eddie would mess around and hook up, the guilt would come later. It would hit Richie once he was on his way home, or in his bed. It would sometimes feel so overwhelming that it felt impossible to pull himself out of. Sometimes he would feel so much inside of him that he would try and get it out in whatever ways he could. Sometimes he would go and ride his bike until his legs burned and he was so dehydrated every swallow hurt. Sometimes he would hurt himself, or drink, or take a pill or two so he could feel numb. Numb was better than everything all at once. Numb meant his head would be quiet for a while, and he could just exist without the constant torment that was _being_. Richie knew the guilt would come. He knew it would settle in the home it had made for itself in his bones and nerves. It would spread like a disease until he would sit at his window and smoke all his cigarettes and wonder what will be the last straw – what will push him far enough that he would snap? Would he just get the guts to kill himself, or would he hurt someone else in the process? Would he become what he feared? Was he already there? Maybe if he smoked enough cigarettes, maybe if he drank enough straight spirits, maybe if he took one too many pills, it would do him in. Then, it wouldn’t be his fault really and people wouldn’t be so goddamn sad about it.

Richie didn’t feel guilty as his head cleared, as he settled back down. He felt calm and tranquil. He felt like he could sleep for a good while. He knew that it would come in time. That this, too, would be taken by his brain and spun from something that he should celebrate into something he didn’t want to think about. In that moment, though, Richie felt as if an aching inside of him had finally been soothed. That he finally had found something he had been unknowingly searching for. Maybe the exhaustion was finally catching up to him.

Whatever it was, Richie gently pulled Eddie’s legs down from his shoulders and laid down beside him on the bed. It was too small for both of them now, but Richie could care less. He didn’t want to move, didn’t want to pull out of Eddie. He wanted to savour this until the worst was to come and ruin it for him forever. He wanted to revel in a faux normalcy that he coveted; a fantasy that he chased after that would forever elude him. In a movie, or in another reality, or in another time, Richie and Eddie would be childhood sweethearts, and this would be a momentous, passionate declaration of their youthful love. But now, there, Richie knew it was just another burden for the both of them to carry. Another stone in their trench-coat pockets as they walked into the lake of life; around them, people free from rocks at all would swim and float in tranquil bliss, unaware of those who would just sink to the bottom and drown.

Richie buried his face into Eddie’s neck and shoulder and he closed his eyes and he prayed that he would wake up somewhere else and that it would all be okay. He prayed for all of those who were like him, for those ahead of him who may live a completely different life, who would be accepted for who they were and who they loved. He prayed that they lived completely unaware of what it felt like to live like he did now. He prayed for Eddie, and he prayed for himself, and he prayed for everybody in Derry. He knew that it was no use, but he still wanted to believe that it would do something. At the same time, he wished there was no God; because if there was, why did he hate Richie so fucking much? What had he ever done? What had Eddie done? What had any of them done to deserve this?

“You can stay here; my family get back at noon.” _Please don’t go. Not yet, Eddie._ Richie’s lips moved over Eddie’s skin, and Eddie didn’t make a noise. His breathing was somewhat regular now, and Richie could feel his heart beat steady against his bones. One day that heart would stop, and Richie was convinced the whole world would too. At least, his would. “Are you going to stay the night?”

He knew Eddie usually couldn’t sleep with light in the room, and yet he didn’t ask Richie to switch off the dim desk lamp. He slowly moved so Richie slipped out of him. He wormed his way under Richie’s arms, pulling himself close to his chest. He was curled up, his head tucked under Richie’s chin. It was sticky and too hot and gross, but Richie didn’t move. He didn’t want to. He just held onto Eddie, and closed his eyes too, and knew that when he would open them in a few hours he would have to go back to pretending like this had never happened. Every time, he was unsure if he was able to go back to that. Every time, it became harder and harder for him to do. He knew there was only a matter of time before he couldn’t do it at all.

Richie was teetering the line between conscious and not when Eddie spoke up, finally. His voice was small, and rough, like he had been smoking cigarettes. His hands clasped around Richie, fingers digging into his arms and shoulders as he tried to get comfortable and would shift from time to time. It was more comforting than anything Richie knew.

“Richie,” Eddie spoke as if he didn’t even know if he was awake, and Richie just hummed in response, one hand flat against the plane of Eddie’s back and the other around his waist. “Richie, I like you more than I should. I’m… I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Part of Richie wanted to think that he didn’t know what that meant. Part of him, a large part of him, wanted to continue to live in denial and ignorance. Part of him knew that he had been doing that, and he had been doing it for longer than he wanted to admit. Richie was good at lying to the world, but he was even better at lying to himself. But he was so tired. He was so tired. He was so tired of everything.

Would it be so bad? Would it be so bad? What did he have to lose that he wasn’t going to inevitably lose anyway?

“It’s okay, Eddie,” Richie spoke, and he was braver then, as his mind was still and his body wasn’t his own, and he felt as if the moment he would sleep it would all be over. That this was it. It would cut to credits, like a film. The end of a novel, the last sentence. And Richie thought about everything he had done, and everyone that he loved. And he thought about the summers they had shared. He thought about Eddie, golden sunshine Eddie, Eddie from Boston with the smile and the laugh who taught Richie about so many things without even knowing. Eddie, who he would spend his entire life chasing after. He loved Eddie, he loved him, even if the world hated him and even if it would put him in the ground. He was going to go there anyway – and he would rather it be for loving Eddie Kaspbrak than after years upon years of hating who he was.

It was easy to think of courage, but Richie knew he was a coward. Even cowards were brave sometimes. And he would never be brave enough to tell Eddie that he deserved better than any of this. So, he spoke, a façade of bravery, though for once, he didn’t lie.

“Me too, Eddie. Me too.”


	18. The Suburbs; 1992

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It would be forever carved into him too. Just another anonymous confession. A symptom of human condition. A depiction of human selfishness. A childish selfishness that had never left him, that had crudely contorted into a misery he had long made a bed within. All of this pain, he brought upon himself. He was a self-saboteur; he had mastered it as an art. And everything he loved would only bring him pain until the day he would finally feel worthy enough of love in return.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope this isn’t terrible 🥲  
> Title for this chapter is from one of the major influences behind this work. Check it out here —  
> https://youtu.be/f1BGI3e0Aak

The Tozier family parked in the middle of their driveway to their perfectly suburban home at a socially acceptable 11:13am. One by one, they exited their recently purchased second-hand car, talking quietly, yet fondly, amongst themselves about the weekend they had spent away with extended family. They, in an orderly fashion, walked into a clean and tidy house. Their shoes squeaked and scuffled across the floorboards; the car-keys ritualistically placed within the fruit bowl that had sat on the kitchen countertop since forever. Jennifer Tozier carried her bags up the stairs that had been tread a hundred thousand times by the same feet throughout the years; Wentworth Tozier followed Maggie Tozier into the kitchen, distracting her from surveying the contents of the pantry with an affectionate kiss. As was routine for the family unit, their only son was absent from this venture. Instead, Richard Tozier had stayed behind in his room on the second floor. And as far as the Tozier family were concerned, that’s where he had remained. Nothing was amiss. The Tozier family continued to live out their American-dollhouse complacency; ignorant and unaware, blissful in that way.

It hadn’t taken Richie long to begin to recognise the sound the new car made when it pulled in. The sound of the engine, the sound of the tyres, the sound of the doors and the specific jingle of the car-keys. On those keys, Richie could visualise and name every keychain and keyring. He could tell who was walking up to the door, and even throughout the house, by their footsteps alone. The distinct pattern of every footfall, the heaviness of the tread. He could tell who was to open his bedroom door by the way they turned the handle. He knew every member of his family like he knew his own heartbeat. He knew the sounds of life they emitted during their thoughtless every-day, their routines they stuck to by the minute. Richie had waited, since he was young, to fall into that same rhythmic way of survival. He waited for everything to click into place, for everything to suddenly make sense. For a feeling of purpose and fulfillment and satisfaction. To feel as if he belonged to the household as much as everybody else did. The Tozier family had lived and existed throughout this space, an unremarkable house in the suburbs of an unremarkable small town, from the beginning of time. They had existed then, before, and forever. Everything that had ever happened and ever would happen was happening in that moment; and Richie didn’t belong anywhere at all.

When Richie heard the familiar symphony of arrival and reignition of life within the household, he had been sitting at his cluttered desk for long enough that he couldn’t feel anything waist down. He had sat there, on that rickety desk chair that had worn through to the skeleton, after Eddie had left in the early hours of the morning. He had made no effort to sort through the collection of papers that were scattered across it’s surface. Countless missed due-dates, paperwork void of any signature. Instead, he had placed a bottle of whiskey he had stolen from his dad’s cabinet atop the evidence of years of dysfunction. As Jennifer’s door opened and closed across the hall, Richie had smoked almost all of his cigarettes and had swallowed a handful of mints to cover the alcoholic smell that was evident on his breath. Outwardly, the house was undisturbed and the days alone had been unremarkable. The Tozier family was unaware, as they had always been. They were unaware of the fact that Richie had changed and washed his sheets after purposefully spilling red wine to cause a stain and create an explanation (he would rather be caught out for drinking alcohol than for what it truly was he was doing). They were unaware of the fact that Richie was drinking more than he ever had and that he didn’t care to try and curb it. They were unaware of the fact that Richie sat at his desk for hours, wondering why his dad had never bothered with getting a gun; praying to a hateful God to make it all right and alright again. Everything was fine. Nothing hurt.

Nothing was fine.

Everything hurt.

Richie couldn’t find it in himself to move. He hoped that somehow within the days that had passed, the door to his room had been cemented over. That his family had forgotten about his existence, that he could be left until he just wasn’t anymore. That Richie could remained locked away. It was so difficult to push only parts of him into a closet while keeping the rest of him out for everyone to see. It was slowly ripping him in two, right down the middle, and he could feel it. He really could. He could feel it all, and it never stopped. It never stopped. It never stopped. 

*

The very thought of seeing Eddie after their date and subsequent sexual encounter made Richie physically sick. It was a step beyond just _feeling_ so; the thought dredged up so much anxiety from deep within him that he ended up throwing up in the kitchen sink. He had admittedly drank a little too much and had taken something (he wasn’t sure what) that had resulted in him feeling woozy. And he had gotten this weird sort of cold, claustrophobic feeling of anxiety and panic that had built up and up rapidly as he had shakily tried to get himself a glass of water. Within moments, he was spewing in the sink instead and his mother seemed to materialise by his side. He wasn’t sure if she smelt what almost smelt like as if Richie had been digesting ethanol; and if she did, she didn’t say a word. Instead, she instantly sat him down on a chair at the dining room table.

“Drink some water, sweetheart. Oh, you look like you feel dreadful, darling. Do you have a fever?” She fussed, placing the cup he had failed to fill in front of him with some water. Richie sipped at it, before he realised just how thirsty he was and began to chug it down. His mother put a hand to his forehead in concern, and Richie hoped he would miraculously have a fever that would send him to a hospital in a far away city. “Do you feel unwell, Richard? Oh, dear, oh dear. My poor darling boy.”

It felt as if it had only been yesterday Richie had sat at the table to tell the family about the new boy he met who lived a few doors down. A selfish part of him wished that he and Eddie had never met – that he would live an entire lifetime without loving someone. That he could be cold and bitter for that reason, and not any other.

“Let’s get you up to your bed. You need to rest, love.” Maggie cooed and Richie felt a cold, sharp pang shoot up into his head through his spine. He gripped the glass in his hands. He felt like he wanted to cry, like he was a child again.

Guilt was gnawing at his insides ceaselessly.

His mother was such a good woman, such a lovely mother. How would she feel if she knew?

“Mom, can I sleep in the guest room instead? My room gets too hot and stuffy.” Richie croaked an excuse, and his mom frowned. She looked at him, and he looked at his near empty glass. He knew that she thought his behaviour was odd. That this was all odd. That he was keeping something from her – every muscle in his body felt tight with the possibility that she would ask.

“Sure, my sweet boy.” Maggie’s voice was calming like sweet, smooth, warm honey and Richie wanted to cry like a baby. She walked with him to the guest room, tucking him in under the covers that were crisp and smelt like childhood. He wanted to be seven again, small enough that the bed felt vast and impossibly large. Now, he had practically grown too tall for it.

His mom sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing Richie’s hair out of his face for him and carding her slender fingers through it. She had done the same when he had been a child. It had been years. Richie ached. It had been so long, and he ached. He wanted to apologise to his mother for all of this. He had never realised that one day it would be the last time his mother would come in to say goodnight and tell him a story. He never had realised that one day he would suddenly be staring adulthood in the face and wishing he could turn back and run into her arms.

“My sweet, sweet boy.” Maggie hummed aloud, and Richie closed his eyes. He listened to her breaths and felt her touch. It helped smooth out the pain that was stabbing his insides, the burdens that were crushing him to fucking death. “Oh Richard. I’ll love you no matter what, you know that, right, sweetheart? I’m your mother. There’s nothing you could ever do that would make me stop loving you.”

Oh, but there was. Richie knew that there was. If only she knew. If only she knew.

He reached up and grabbed her hand and held it as tight as he could. He felt tired, but in a way that was not entirely pleasant. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he was dying. Maybe his rottenness was finally taking it’s toll. “What’s wrong, Richie? You know you can tell me if something is wrong. I’m worried for you, my love. Is it a girl? Do you have another girlfriend?”

“No, momma. It’s not a girl, I don’t have a girlfriend. I’m sorry.” Richie offered a smile, though he knew it was weak and flimsy. He closed his eyes again, tighter, refusing the tears any means to escape. Instead, his throat was on fire with the need to cry. He felt like a child again. Confused. Overwhelmed. Scared. He felt as if he had done the worst possible thing – like broken something important or ate something he wasn’t allowed to touch. He wished that that was the case.

There was a pause as Maggie seemed to look at Richie, her thumb tracing over his cheekbone. She was breathing quietly, measured. As if she were hunting elk. Richie’s head felt thick and sour. He wondered if maybe he had accidentally taken something bad, and if he even cared.

“What about Eddje?” Maggie asked, and there was an offbeat of silence. She swallowed, thick enough that Richie could hear the crackle and pop, and she resumed her gentle touches. Richie felt like he was gonna puke again. He felt like he wanted to rip his skin off. He wanted to sob and beg for forgiveness. Did she know? Did she know? What did she know? What if she did, what happened then? He didn’t have the energy to fight it, he didn’t have the energy to keep making up elaborate lies to cover up such a persistent truth.

“What about Eddie?” Richie echoed, his eyes fixating on the ceiling above them. He used to stare at the very same ceiling as a child, straining his eyes for as long as he could keep them open. He used to still his breathing to the best of his ability and wonder if that was what it was like to be dead. He remembered lying on his side atop the guest room covers, staring toward the window at the light that would stream in from the afternoon sun. He would watch the dust float, beautiful fragments of something, reach out with his little hands and spread his fingers and close one eye. Everything had been so beautiful before he understood what it meant, all of what was inside of him.

“I mean… does he… does he have a girlfriend or something? It always sucks when your best friend gets a new girlfriend and doesn’t have any time for you anymore. When I was young, my friend Sally got a boyfriend, and she—”

“No, he doesn’t. He’s too invested in school at the moment. He doesn’t want a girlfriend.” Richie interrupted, closing his eyes. His mom’s hand returned to his hair. She didn’t comment on how it was tangled and messy, or how it was greasy, or how he needed it cut. He loved her for that – he loved her for a lot. “He wants to be a doctor or something. Wants to go to a… a good college. I think he’ll be able to do it, too. He’s smart.” Richie pulled the covers up to his chin and tried not to think. He barely felt as if he could hang on to what was in his brain, and what did manage to stick was everything he was trying desperately to avoid.

“You’re smart too, Richie. You could go to college and do whatever you want to do.” Maggie reassured, and Richie felt the emotional equivalent to having his thumb slammed in a car door. He didn’t know how to tell his mom that he didn’t care about college, because it didn’t mean a thing to him anyway. That he would rather die than do… anything at all. Maybe he would tell his mom he got accepted into a college far, far away. Somewhere remote, another country. And he would drive out and drive into a lake instead. “Okay, well… you know you’ll always be my baby, Richie. No matter what, I love you more than anything. Nothing will change that. Absolutely nothing in the world.” 

Richie felt raw and exposed, and he had to swallow as hard as he could to not let himself cry. It wasn’t like his mother hadn’t seen him cry before. But if he cried, he knew he wouldn’t ever be able to stop again.

“Promise?” He could only gasp, like he was desperate for air. He drew in a painful breath through his nose, refusing to open his eyes. He knew his mother was looking at him. He knew that she knew in her gut that something was wrong; but little did she know it was much more than stupid highschool drama or a simple flu. She had no idea how deep this all ran, that there was no solution. It just _was_. How did you fix something that just… was?

“Pinky swear, sweet boy. Now get some rest, okay? I’ll let your friends know that you’re under the weather if they call for you or come by.” The weight on the edge of the bed lifted as Maggie stood, and part of Richie wanted to beg her to stay. To read him a story. To sing to him. He wanted to tell her everything and hear that it was okay and that everything would be alright. But he knew that if he did tell her, that she would have to break every promise to him that she had ever made.

As her footsteps softly headed towards the door, and she began to let herself out, Richie opened his eyes. He looked at his mom, at the back of her head. His heart felt so uncomfortable in his chest cavity that he wanted to pull it out with his bare hands.

“I love you, momma.” He said, and Maggie smiled at him over her shoulder. It felt cruel to keep this all from her. To let her continue to nurture him when he knew what he was.

“I love you too, Richard.”

*

“So why exactly have you been avoiding Eddie?” Stan’s voice was unwavering and accusatory, and Richie could feel his intense gaze boring two holes into his head. Richie had known Stan for long enough, and he knew that Stan wanted him to look up and meet his eyes. Of course, he didn’t. Instead, he remained hunched over his Gameboy, plucking his cigarette from between his lips and exhaling an obnoxious plume of smoke.

“What’re you talking about? I’m not avoiding Eddie.” Richie muttered, and he sounded petulant even in his own ears. They had ridden their bikes up to the quarry to hang out for the day; Stan reading books and scribbling tiny notes into them while Richie wasted his time with his Gameboy or some old comics he had recently rediscovered at the bottom of his closet. It was an uncomfortably humid day, so he already felt pretty lousy, and Stan’s sudden accusation didn’t do him any favours.

“You’re full of so much fuckin’ bullshit, Trashmouth.” Stan muttered, and Richie could hear the eyeroll in his tone. He turned a page, and Richie lost another fucking life as his sweaty fingers slipped over worn buttons. He cursed as he was back at the start of the level once more. “I mean, you’ve been avoiding everyone. But you’ve really been avoiding Eddie. Did he piss you off or something? You’re usually joined at the goddamn hip.”

Richie exhaled through his nose and felt his mouth contort into a long, deep frown. He looked up at Stan, who was scribbling a little note beside a picture of some bird. Richie reached for his can of soda, taking a sip of the sugary liquid that had long since become unpleasantly lukewarm.

“He didn’t piss me off. It’s complicated. Don’t worry about it.” Richie mumbled idly, deciding to lie down in the short grass, propping his hands behind his head and looking up at the patches of blue sky peaking through the patchy foliage of the tree they were sat beneath. “What’re the notes for, Einstein? Studying for the bird exam?” He attempted to change the topic, placing his cigarette between his lips. The shirt he was wearing was an old, ill-fitted shirt with some stupid pun on it that he never cared to read nor remember; it stuck uncomfortably to his skin, making him feel almost claustrophobic.

“I’m lending it to Patty after I’m done with it. I’m writing notes for her for when she gives it a read.” Stan commented flatly, and Richie looked over briefly, catching him squinting at the pages as if trying to figure out a difficult equation. Stan had met this girl Patty recently; a girl a grade below them in school, who was into all the weird, boring shit Stan was into. They were already smitten with one another, though they danced around one another like they had all the time in the world. It frustrated Richie, just as Ben and Beverly frustrated him too. And it scared him also, as it implied that there would be a time that everybody would expect Richie to do the same thing. Soon, everybody would have found somebody that was _acceptable_. Everybody except Richie, that was. “And I will worry about it actually, because Eddie is my friend too and he’s very fucking upset. He knows you’re avoiding him. I asked him why too, but you both are equal amounts of difficult. It gives me a stress migraine, you know that?”

Richie didn’t reply, squinting up at the light that was filtering down. The smoke from his cigarette curled upwards into the atmosphere, up towards the sky, disappearing right before it got there. Truthfully, he _had_ been avoiding Eddie. He had avoided him since the night they had slept together for the first time. At first, he had had an excuse. He had been ‘sick’ for a week, so Richie had managed to easily keep a low profile. After he was well again, he didn’t _have_ an excuse – but he avoided Eddie anyway. Whenever he would call, Richie would tell his mom to let him know that he couldn’t come to the phone at that moment. Whenever he would turn up on the doorstep asking to see him, Richie would say he was working on homework or that he was busy with ‘other commitments’. Sometimes, he would ride his bike out somewhere far and isolated and spend the day there, just so he wouldn’t run the risk of having to face Eddie Kaspbrak.

He wasn’t sure _why_ he was avoiding Eddie. Just thinking about having to face him after all that had happened that night gave him a horrid stomach-ache. Richie couldn’t stop thinking about it all. For the longest time, the way he would deal with things that upset him or made him panic or just made him feel _bad_ was to pretend like it just simply… wasn’t happening. Or he would purposefully make it so that he didn’t understand. He would look the other way, he wouldn’t ask questions. But now… after what had happened that night, everything was hitting him hard. Like the force of tonnes of bricks all at once, crashing down onto his body. He couldn’t lie to himself and pretend that none of this was happening, or that it was something else entirely. He couldn’t tell himself that it wasn’t that way, that he had possibly misconstrued it. It was what it was. And what it was made Richie unable to sleep, unable to function, unable to do much except try and quell the heavy, sickly feeling in the pit of his gut.

He didn’t regret having sex, and that was the problem. He liked having sex with Eddie. He _loved_ having sex with Eddie. It was the sexiest thing he had ever done in his entire life. But going the full mile had pretty much sealed his fate as being a bona-fide _fag_ ; there was no way back from that. And not only that, but Eddie had told him that he _liked_ Richie. And Richie had told him, for some reason he still couldn’t figure out for himself, that he _liked_ him too. And what was he supposed to do with all of that? Just hours beforehand, he had been safe and secure in the closet. He had never anticipated that he would have sex with another guy ever, let alone _Eddie_. He had gone into that evening panicked by the idea that maybe it wasn’t a date and he was going to make himself look like an idiot in front of the boy he was in love with; and he had finished the night having found out that Eddie was gay, having sex with Eddie, and having Eddie confess that he may have some crush on Richie only for Richie to confess right back.

It was all too fast, all too much. Like he had had his foot slammed on the accelerator, and now it was jammed that way.

And he couldn’t help but think, and then what? What happened now? They’d had sex. Richie was still trying to grapple with the fact that he had had sex with another guy in a town where boys couldn’t even _look_ at each other for too long without becoming victim to some sort of hate-crime. Not only was it sex, but it was with _Eddie_. So there was that extra kick to it too. And Eddie had told him he had liked Richie – so did that mean they would have to be boyfriends? And what if they did, theoretically, become boyfriends. If Richie said _fuck it_ , and threw away his entire life to be able to be Eddie Kaspbrak’s _boyfriend_ in sleepy, bigoted Derry. What if Eddie changed his mind? What if he decided, which he was most likely going to, that Richie wasn’t _it_ for him and broke up with him? Richie would have ruined everything in his life for Eddie, and he would be left without anything. Alone. _Alone_.

No matter what he did, he would end up _alone_. He just had to try and determine how he could avoid being _completely and utterly alone_.

“I know you’re not listening to me, shithead.” Stan’s voice broke very clearly through Richie’s torpedoing stream of consciousness, and he realised he had been talking the entire time. Richie grumbled something, ashing out his cigarette half-heartedly as Stan sighed and cleared his throat. “I _said_ that you need to get your shit together. Whatever it is that happened between you two, you need to just… talk to him, at least. He’s got some serious shit going down and he needs your support. You're being a real shitty friend right now, just in case you weren’t aware.”

“We’ve all got some serious shit going down, Stan-man. You don’t know what you’re talking about, okay? Thanks for the concern and no offence but fuck out of it.” Richie grunted as he pushed himself up into a sitting position once again. Stan looked at him – he looked almost… disappointed and angry, a weird combination of the two. Like he was tossing up punching Richie or trying to talk sense to him. He would much prefer the punch to the face. “You’re actin’ like Eddie hasn’t done anything shitty before. Don’t pin this all on me when you don’t know shit. You’ve been too busy tryin’ to get into Patty’s ankle-length dress to give her a good motorboating to even hang out with the Losers. Don’t act all high-and-mighty now.”

“Excuse me?” Stan closed his book abruptly, admittedly making Richie flinch at the sudden noise. “You think I don’t notice? You think _none of us_ notice? You’re not subtle, Richie. You’re a fucking asshole about it, too. I don’t know what’s going on with you and Eddie, sure. I don’t know what’s going on with just _you_ , either. But I know you look like shit, and you reek like you’ve been drinking more often than not, and you’re getting God knows _what_ from Jeremy behind the bleachers. I know that you need to _get yourself together_ , Richie. You’re free to fuck up your own life, but whatever you have going on is starting to hurt us, too. Hurt _Eddie_ , too. We’re all just tryin’ to help you, but you’re just… you’re just kind of an asshole. And a really _shitty_ friend. Beep _beep_ , Richie, and forget I even tried with you.” Stan spat out the words sharply – words that Richie hadn’t heard for a long, long time. Words that were etched into his memory from childhood; always there, like it was carved into the back of his head. Stan had stood up abruptly as he spat out his words, his face blotchy and red like it got when he was angry. Every single word sunk into Richie’s skin, down a few layers. And he knew he was right, he knew he was right – and yet, he still felt a familiar, acidic anger bubble up inside of him. He stood up too, taller than Stan because of course he was.

“You know _what,_ Stanley? You really wanna fucking _know_ what’s _up with me_? I—” Richie didn’t feel as if he was even in control anymore. It felt as if he was an outsider looking and watching his actions. Like he was a puppet, and someone else was painfully yanking his strings for fun. That flash of anger, however, quickly melted away as he saw a few of the Losers walking down the hill and right towards the two of them. One of which was very obviously Eddie. Richie felt his mouth go dry, and he stepped backwards. And he stepped backwards again. And he heard Beverly call out to him, and he heard Stanley start to say his name; and like the coward he was, right down to the atoms that made up his stupid fucking body, he turned and he ran. He ran, and he ran, and he ran until he didn’t even know where he was anymore.

*

For a while now, there had been something deep inside of Richie that knew this had gotten out of control. It had been saying the same thing for a while now, on repeat in the very back of his head. He would always choose to ignore it, always choose to think that he knew better. That he was in control. But he knew, as he sat on the dilapidated wooden seat on the _‘Kissing Bridge’_ he had dumped Marie on a few years back, that that voice was right. Things had gotten out of hand quite a while ago. He couldn’t pinpoint exactly when; maybe it was when he had had his first cigarette or sip of alcohol, or maybe it had been the first time he had jerked off to the thought of a guy, or maybe it stretched back all the way to when he had first met Eddie. When he had seen him on his grandma’s porch and had been hit with the overwhelming need to _talk_ to him. He often thought about what his life would have been like if he had never met Eddie. If he had learned what life was without him. He was sure, as much as he didn’t want to think it was true, that he would feel as if there was something missing. An integral part of him. That he would say something and turn towards an empty space beside him and wonder why he had done that at all. The space that Eddie occupied, that was eternally reserved for him. In all the universes, parallel and otherwise, there would always be a space for him.

And what about Eddie? What would it be like if Richie was just another kid he barely knew? What if they had never met, and Eddie stayed in Boston with his mother? What if he had never come to Derry at all? Would anything be better, or would it be worse? Was there any package of options that wouldn’t result in a hollow aching in the chest, in a pain that never really truly left?

Richie rubbed at his wrist, at the space that the birthday watch he had gotten from Eddie once had occupied. He had taken it off a few days ago, and he still wasn’t used to it’s absence, but it had begun to feel like it was eating away at his skin. A physical manifestation of guilt. He had unclasped it and put it under his pillow. He was sure he could hear the ticking despite it. And he felt like that one guy in that one story, the Shakespeare story, who would be driven mad by a heartbeat beneath the floorboards. Except it was a watch, one that had cost Eddie too much money and was one of the nicest things Richie owned. He laid in the bed for hours, restless and sleepless, his clothes always sticking to his body. _Four days ago… five days ago… six… seven… twelve…_

When Eddie had lived in Massachusetts and Richie had been longing to see him, it had seemed that Eddie’s presence was caught on a crease within the fold in fabric of time that Derry was securely tucked into. But now, it felt as if the town wasn’t big enough and Richie couldn’t run far enough, and their lives had become so intertwined and locked into one another that it felt like he was trying to run from his own shadow.

He had to stop running. But he had been running his whole life, and he wasn’t sure he knew how to stop now.

It was getting late in the evening, and Richie hadn’t eaten all day. He had smoked too many cigarettes and had cheap wine in his stomach. He wasn’t even hungry, and time had become hard to hold onto as he spent his days falling deeper and deeper into avoidance. He had thought he was avoiding everybody else, but he was coming to know that he was more avoiding _himself_. He wanted to be like the cicada that screamed into the night in his company, shed parts of himself and emerge new and clean and good. Did cicada shed their exoskeleton? He figured Stan would know.

He stood up from the seat once the discomfort from sitting on it become to much to handle. He stretched his legs out, smiling in a way that felt distorted at the few people walking through the park at that hour. They were people he knew lived in Derry, but he didn’t really know. He wondered how many people saw him that way too – just some kid they had seen on occasion. He wondered if they had ever felt what he was always feeling, what he was feeling then, the feelings that never went away. It seemed impossible. It felt so lonely, it really did, and he felt as if he was the only one who was this way.

He had to stop. He was falling through a narrow space, one that got smaller the farther he fell. There had been times he could have grabbed onto the way out, a rope or a hand, but he just kept falling until he was stuck. Now, he was stuck tight – only when he took a particularly deep breath did he fall further. Soon, he wouldn’t be able to breathe at all, and he could feel the pressure of that knowledge crushing down on his ribs until they would eventually crack and splinter.

Richie stepped forward to the railing of the bridge. He leaned forward over it, looking down over the murky water that passed underneath. Tranquil now. He had always wondered how deep it was. As a kid he had thought there was a tunnel somewhere beneath the surface, one he could swim through that would open into something wonderous. Like an intricate cave system, or the ocean, or he would end up on the other side of the world. Now, he knew it was likely just mud and trash down there. The magic of so much had just vanished sometime, and he didn’t know where it had gone or _when_. It had all seemed so real, and he missed living in that world where anything could happen and everything was within reach. Once he had thought he could take on the world. Now, he could barely take on the hour.

Beneath his fingertips, he could feel the indentations of carvings that lived there. Years upon years of people leaving their marks. Something that lived in the moment forever as their lives continued, a snapshot moment; the kind Richie had been chasing after for his lifetime. He had learned, after he had dumped his only girlfriend to date, that the people of Derry would carve the initials of their love on the bridge. Like the bridge in Paris with thousands of locks, except it was a barely standing bridge in the middle of _nowhere,_ _Maine_ where romance went to die. Love didn’t live there. Not as it should, anyhow. And yet, Richie found himself pulling away from staring into unknown murky depths so that he could look. So he could see the initials of nameless and faceless individuals; of yearning. And he wondered if any of them were boys who loved boys and girls who loved girls. He wondered if he and Eddie were the only ones, or if this story repeated itself every 27 years.

The watch was still ticking under his pillow; Richie had memorised the exact sound of the ticking. He had held it up to his ear to listen to it, to compare it with the sound of Eddie’s heartbeat.

 _R + E_.

Richie had stolen a pocketknife a few days back. He wasn’t sure why. Maybe he knew but he didn’t want to think it because that made it really real and that made him slip further. The knife caught the dimming light, and Richie flicked it open. He found an empty space, crouching down in a way that made his knees crack. How many times over how many realities had he done this? How many different versions of himself had never even made it this far?

_R + E._

A few days ago, he wasn’t sure how many now, Beverly had called him on the landline. Richie couldn’t remember the last time he had talked to someone on the phone. Or maybe he did. He had held onto the receiver with a vicelike grip, staring at the tiles of the kitchen floor. His mother was busying herself outside in the garden while his father read the paper on the patio. Beverly’s voice, despite being nestled right beside his eardrum, sounded as if it was years away from him. Like he was listening to her while he was underwater, holding his breath until his lungs screamed for mercy. His gaze would drift from one thing to another; from the freshly wiped down countertop, to the way the afternoon light reached across the floor and nipped at the toes of his socks. Or sock, rather – he was only wearing one. His mother fussed over the rosebushes as Richie tried to force himself to _listen_ ; he had never been any good at that.

_“—You can’t keep doing this, Richie. I know it’s hard, but you just… you can’t do that. Eddie told me about everything, he told me what happened. Please, Richie. I know you’re scared and this is hard for you but you can’t just shut us all out like this. We’re worried about you—”_

Richie could see particles of dust floating through the sunbeams. He lifted his fingers and reached his hand out just enough to touch it. He remembered lying on the grass with Eddie in the middle of a field just near the abandoned railroad; both of them reaching towards the sweltering sun and watching the way their hands went pink as the light lit their bodies up. They always thought that maybe, like some sort of X-Ray, they would see their bones. Richie remembered the way the grass felt sticky against his neck. He remembered how he could never pay attention to anything, but once Eddie came along his attention never left.

_“—and Eddie really needs you right now. I don’t want to talk to you about his personal shit, but I’m telling you that you need to cut this out and stop avoiding him. What you’re doing is… you’re really hurting people, Richie. I know you’re hurting and all that, but even if things were different, even if things weren’t happening like this, what you’re doing… you just don’t do. You don’t just sleep with someone and pretend they don’t exist. I thought you were better than that. We all thought you were better than this. Richie? Are you even listening? Are you even there? Hello?”_

Eddie did try to call. He also tried to see if Richie was home; and he knew as much because he watched Eddie walk up to the door from his bedroom window. Richie was home alone – he knew, very well, that he could let Eddie in and they could talk without worrying about anyone overhearing a word. That they could work it all out. But he didn’t move, holding his breath as he heard the rapping of knuckles that seemed to invoke a call and response with his heartbeat. He watched as, after five or so minutes, Eddie took a few steps back. He stood there, at the foot of the patio, and he looked up at Richie through the window. And even though Eddie couldn’t see through the blinds he had drawn to obscure him from the world, Richie knew that he knew that he was there.

 _R + E_.

Richie’s hand hurt as he dug the tip of his knife into the wooden surface, whittling out crude letters that looked eerily like his homemade Mother’s Day cards in preschool. His hand ached, and that ache shot up his arm, and he grinded down his molars until it throbbed inside of his skull. None of this was fair. None of it was fair. It had never been fair from the start, and yet this felt fucking cruel. Of all the people, why was it Eddie Kaspbrak? Of all the people, why was it him? Why did it have to be then and there? Why did it hurt so much, and why did it never stop hurting? Richie didn’t want to have to live with this, but he had no choice. He had never had a choice. This had all fallen into all the wrong places. His momma had once told him that God, whoever that even was, would only give you challenges you could overcome. Richie knew he couldn’t overcome this. There were no happily ever-afters, no heart-warming codas to conclude and capture all the good in the world. There was no good in the world for people like him. And if God was really that way, why did he do all of those things to Eddie? And why would he want Richie to become so intimate with the thought of death at such a young age? Children were supposed to look towards the future as if it were limitless and brimming with opportunities; to consider all the possible promises awaiting them. Children were supposed to wonder what happened next – not hope there was nothing more to come.

_R + E._

Nothing mattered anyway. Why did he care so much? Why did he try so hard to make it all work out, when he knew it wasn’t going to anyway? What was the point of trying? What was he running from? Why was he running, still?

Why couldn’t he just let himself be happy? Why had happiness started to scare him so goddamn much?

_R + E._

It would be forever carved into him too. Just another anonymous confession. A symptom of human condition. A depiction of human selfishness. A childish selfishness that had never left him, that had crudely contorted into a misery he had long made a bed within. All of this pain, he brought upon himself. He was a self-saboteur; he had mastered it as an art. And everything he loved would only bring him pain until the day he would finally feel worthy enough of love in return. If that day came at all, however, was another matter entirely in itself. 

_*_

School was starting again soon, and Richie was thinking about dropping out. He had been seriously considering it as the deadline loomed closer, though it seemed a bit of a waste to do such a thing when he was so close to finishing now. He just didn’t see any reason to continue with it. He didn’t want to go to college, he had no aspirations. Thinking about the next week was enough to give him the shits, let alone years into his future. He knew that if he were to drop out, his mother would certainly have a meltdown over it. After all, Jennifer had managed to finish school without a single issue. Sure, she had decided not to go to college, and their parents, while disappointed, had accepted that decision. Because of this, it was on Richie to be the child that _succeeded._ Despite being entirely misguided, they continued to hold onto that hope that Richie would graduate college to go on and do _something_.

He could still do it if he applied himself now. He knew he could manage if he sat down and caught up on all his missed assignments, if he applied himself and somehow found motivation that he had been lacking since first grade. Richie could do _something_ if he tried to, if he just _did it_ like he was supposed to. But instead, he was spending time doing anything _else_. Like, for example, walking aimlessly through the part of town that he knew the Losers tended to avoid. The Bowers Gang usually liked to claim the area as their ‘turf’, though Richie had been fortunate enough to avoid them so far. Although, a broken nose sounded pretty fucking good at that point.

That specific day had felt as if it had dragged on for an eternity. He had passed the time in any way he could think; and it was still only four in the afternoon. He didn’t want to go home just yet, so he took to wandering along the main street while smoking a cigarette and avoiding anybody’s gaze. He felt like he stuck out like a sore thumb, like everybody who saw him knew that he didn’t _belong there_. Some people would stare, others would pointedly look away. As if they knew that there was something about Richie that was _not quite right_ , and that they didn’t want to catch whatever it was that lurked just beneath the surface.

Richie had enough change in his pocket to buy himself a milkshake. He had been putting it off so that he could drink it when he really had nothing better to do, though drinking a milkshake wasn’t particularly invigorating stuff. He decided on getting blue heaven, because he usually got strawberry or chocolate and he usually shared with Eddie. His stomach and heart twisted and knotted up into an unpleasant clump at that thought, and Richie found his grip tightening around the cold paper cup as he stepped back out onto the sidewalk. He stood against the brick wall, one hand in his pocket as he took a sip. He watched the people who walked past him, all in their own little worlds. He watched the cars driving down the street, he watched an old lady in an oversized fur coat feed a hotdog piece by piece to her fat dachshund. Richie snickered around the straw at the display; such oddities were rare in Derry, where everything happened as it should.

If Eddie had been there, they would have laughed about it until they cried and Eddie had to get out his inhaler. It would have become just one more inside joke for them to share. Richie would have turned to Eddie and compared him to the small dog, to which Eddie would shriek and elbow him hard enough to wind him. Eddie would bring it up whenever they saw a hotdog, and they would laugh about it all over again.

He could imagine it so clearly.

_“Do you think it counts as cannibalism, Eds? That’s fucked up. It’s like feeding your pet parrot a whole load’a chicken. Do you think she’s gonna make another fur coat out of it? Oh my god, Eds, this bitch is out of 101 Dalmatians. Is she related to your mother? Her name is Sonia De Vil, right?”_

“Would you believe me if I told you that was the second hotdog she has fed it in an hour?”

_“The second, Eds? I think… I think they may just be practicing for the annual Derry hotdog eating competition they have at the Spring fair. You know, they might just win—”_

“Hello? Space-case, ground control to Major Tom?”

Oh. Oh fuck. Someone was talking to him. Richie tore his gaze away from the weird old woman to look towards the voice. His eyes met that of a girl, who was looking at him like he had four-eyes. Like, literally, not just because he wore glasses with lenses thicker than most sheets of ice in Antarctica.

“Two in an hour?” Richie echoed, before he reminded himself to smile. “Do you think they’re practicing for the annual hotdog eating contest in Spring? You know, they _might just_ win.”

The girl laughed. It was a nice laugh. He recognised her from school; he was pretty sure she was in his year, though he couldn’t remember her name or who she associated with. Was she in his history class? _What was her name again?_

“That’s funny. It’s Richie, right? We’re in the same math class. I just finished work at the ice-creamery you got your milkshake from – you’ve been walking around for hours, huh.” She said, looking towards the old woman who had finished the hotdog and was now squinting at something in her gloved hand. Richie stammered, feeling his face heat up at the statement. He couldn’t lie; he just had hoped no one would notice his lonesome loitering and care enough to take note. “It’s fine. There’s not much around here to do, anyway. Derry’s about as exciting as watching paint dry. I get it.” She looked back at him and smiled. Teeth showing, nice and white and straight. Teeth Wentworth would rant and rave about over dinner, and that Richie may have once felt jealous over. Now, he was apathetic. “It’s Stephanie, by the way. In case you don’t remember.” He didn’t. She was only vaguely familiar. She wasn’t as pretty as Marie, but she was pretty all the same – her hair was long and dead straight. It reached her elbows, deep raven in colour. She had big, bright blue eyes, too, and full pink lips. Richie looked at them for a moment, and Stephanie grinned as she caught his eye. He was thinking about whether or not he remembered her from grade school, and if she was the same Stephanie who had had braces fitted by his dad when they were kids. He always felt as if he knew everybody and everything in Derry – and yet he couldn’t help but feel as if he was a stranger, or as if he was waking up from some weird, disorientating dream.

Stephanie was funny. Genuinely funny. She also liked to talk; enough so that Richie didn’t have to really try and carry conversation or talk about himself. He could just listen, and reply with a witty remark. It was easy to make Stephanie laugh. She laughed at nearly all of his jokes, even the ones he thought weren’t that funny. At the beginning of their time together, Richie thought that maybe they just had a really similar sense of humour. But as they walked around the Bowers end of Derry, loitering the streets together while Stephanie talked about things that Richie could really care less about, he realised that whatever he thought it was that was happening wasn’t happening at all. He realised, as Stephanie stole his milkshake and smiled at him, tucking her hair behind her ear as she told him he was _so funny_ before touching his arm, that she was really just as bored of Derry as he was. And that this was what had Ben and Stan so tightly wound up and whipped with a goddamn cherry on top.

Richie didn’t really want to have sex with Stephanie. Of course he didn’t. But he figured that maybe… just maybe, if he just tried it, he would like it. Maybe it would be enough to _turn_ him. Maybe he would realise how much _better_ it was to have sex with a woman, and he would be able to fix all of this and go ahead with the life that everybody had planned for him. Stephanie was pretty enough, and she was funny, and she was interested. Richie figured maybe this was his chance. Even if the whole situation had made him feel nauseous, and even if it felt like a weird sort if betrayal to Eddie. He wasn’t committed to Eddie, he reminded himself. He tried not to think about him as he complimented Stephanie and told more jokes, as she asked him if he drove there. He had, incidentally, having parked the shitty Cutlass near the edge of a park where he knew nobody would bother trying to steal it. Not that they would want to, anyway. He tried not to think of Eddie as Stephanie asked him if he had a girlfriend, tried not to think about him as she asked him to drive her home. They got into the car, and the moment the doors closed, she was all over him. And Richie felt overwhelmed at first, then he reminded himself to just… go through the motions. Step by step. It was all so carefully formulated. None of it came naturally like it had with Eddie – Richie’s hands were too big, and Stephanie kissed weird and he didn’t like the taste. Her skin felt hot and sticky, and Richie’s stomach churned with the urge to puke. Eddie was at home, wondering why Richie hadn’t spoken to him for days. How long had it been now? And Richie was here, in his car, with a girl he hadn’t even remembered the name of just hours before. In the same car that they spent their first date inside of. The same car Richie had found out Eddie was gay, and the same car they had agreed to go the full mile together.

He was ruining it. Like he ruined everything. It was all tainted now. It would never be the same.

“Have you ever done it in the car before?” Stephanie asked, and Richie knew she was trying to sound sexy, but it sounded dumb instead. She bit his lip hard, and he winced and pulled away, banging his head against the headrest awkwardly.

“Uh… no. Can’t say I have. My car isn’t exactly a… a chick magnet.” Richie retorted half-heartedly, to which Stephanie exhaled a bunch of air in a weird half-laugh. She took one of his hands, moving it up her body. She was wearing a skirt and a tight top. Richie only just noticed that she had big boobs, and realised just how little he cared. He tried hard to. He stared at them, tried to will himself to feel some sort of spark of horniness. He even groped one, and Stephanie moaned. He did it again.

“You’re so… cute, Richie. Have you been with a woman before?” Stephanie giggled, reaching downwards and pulling her shirt up and off. She was wearing a nice bra. Richie thought about Eddie, about how he had felt when he saw Eddie’s bare chest. How he had wanted to do all those things to him, and how now he would rather just do anything that wasn’t this. This had probably been a mistake. God, Richie was getting a headache.

“No. I mean, I’m not a virgin.” Richie muttered awkwardly, to which Stephanie grinned down at him.

“What?” She laughed, some of her long black hair falling forward and over her shoulder. “Come on. What are you, frigid? Undo my bra. I want you to fuck me with my skirt on, funny boy.” She purred, and Richie swallowed down an excess of saliva build up as he reached around her body and fumbled awkwardly with the clasps of her bra. Her breasts fell free once he got it undone, to which Stephanie sighed. “Do you like them?” She asked sweetly, to which Richie just nodded and looked up at her.

“Uhuh,” He lied. He didn’t find them sexy at all. None of this was even remotely sexy. Stephanie’s mouth was on his once more, and Richie was trying. He tried so hard to feel… something. He grabbed her boobs, her touched her thighs, he grabbed her hips. He kissed her like he knew Eddie liked to be kissed and it just… he felt nothing. All he could think about was how this just wasn’t Eddie. She was nothing like Eddie. Maybe if she was a brunette, with big bambi eyes, and—

She grabbed his dick, and Richie literally jolted so hard the car rocked on it’s wheels.

“Oh, ho— hold on— one moment—“ He began, feeling her cold hand directly on his cock. He grabbed her arm, trying to ease her enthusiasm. She was frowning at him, leaning back a little so she wasn’t breathing into his mouth. Thank god.

“You’re not even hard.” Stephanie commented, all the playful tones absent from her words. Richie just blinked, his heart beginning to thud painfully and loudly. “Don’t you think I’m sexy?”

“I do, Steph. I do, just— I’m just nervous. Just give me a second, I just… you know, it’s cold.” Richie fired off a round of excuses, to which Stephanie was unimpressed.

“…okay, what if I suck your dick? Let me work your cock, I’ll get it up for you, Rich.” She undid the button of his jeans, pulling his flaccid penis free from it’s confines. Oh god. Oh Jesus. This was horrifying. This was mortifying. Richie’s body was on fire with humiliation.

“No!” Richie said, a little too loudly, before he cleared his throat and followed himself up. “No, just… give me a second. I’ve done this before. It’s just… I need a moment.” Richie steadied himself, removing his hands from Stephanie’s body. He closed his eyes, wrapping a hand around his dick. Okay. Okay. He just had to forget about her, just think about Eddie. About how good he felt, about how he sounded, about his perfect body and his beautiful face and—

“Are you fucking serious right now?” Stephanie’s voice ruined whatever fantasy Richie was building for himself. “What the fuck? What is wrong with you? You were so into me, and now you can’t get it up? What are you, _gay?_ ”

“No, please— just—- just let me, just give me a second—“

“I can’t fucking believe this.” Stephanie scoffed, grabbing her bra and her shirt. Richie panicked, looking down at his dick. He willed for himself to get aroused – to get unbearably horny like he did with Eddie, to want to fuck Stephanie in his car until he was straight and not broken and not all wrong inside. But his dick stayed soft.

Stephanie left in a hurry, not chancing a glance back at Richie. He thought she was crying, but he couldn’t tell for sure. He sat in the Cutlass then, his soft dick out of his pants. He didn’t move from that spot, his legs spread a little and his body slumped against the worn seats. He stared at nothing until his vision blurred over, his head buzzing and numb and his body aching all over. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand before he spit into an empty cup in the cup holder. As he tucked himself away, he noticed a ticket stub on the floor. He had stood on it, so it was dirty and crumpled up, but he picked it up anyway.

It felt foreign between his fingers as he stared at that little scrap of paper. His hands were shaking, and his breathing was shallow and awkward and uneven. A powerful, unexpected sob lurched from the pit of his stomach and ripped his chest wide open. With both hands firmly gripping the wheel, Richie cried. He sobbed like a little fucking kid, brutal and raw and animalistic. He cried for Eddie, he cried for himself. He cried for everyone, and the world. He cried for his parents, for his friends. He cried and cried until his car was shrouded in darkness, and he knew that there was nothing that could ever fix him.

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: @starcatarchive
> 
> playlist part 1: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1WywzRZ74jwSidTd3rIDwg?si=J76GVjBATiyeMsK1asc2sQ


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